


J'adore Venise

by Miranda_Glass



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Happy Ending, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Oliver is a Sleuth, Oliver is not okay, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sad Elio Perlman, Slow Burn, Stolen Papers, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-01-24 02:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 99,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miranda_Glass/pseuds/Miranda_Glass
Summary: It's January 1990 and Oliver is in Venice. That's all I'm going to say to avoid spoilers.The story will have a happy ending, but there will be angst. You have been warned ;)Narrated from Oliver's POV (this may change in future chapters)The usual warnings apply: I've never lived in Venice so forgive the mistakes, I do not own these characters, and please do not repost my work on other platforms without my consent.





	1. Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the song which is heard in the bar where Oliver goes to play cards and it’s also on the car radio as Annella drives a tearful Elio back from the train station in Clusone. 
> 
> The muse struck while I was thinking about Don’t Look Now, so some of the atmospheres and places have been borrowed from the film. Oddly coincidental: one of the hotels shown in the film is next to La Fenice and is called Hotel La Fenice et Des Artistes.
> 
> I chose the opera Lulu at random and when I looked it up on Wikipedia, I found out that it was staged at La Fenice soon after its premiere: coincidence number two.

_“Sentivo che finiva...”_

_(I felt that it was ending...)_

_J’adore Venise_

 ****

Venice, January 1990

 

Rudy had gifted me his ticket. He’d insisted so much, I had been unable to refuse.

“Wise is the definitive Lulu,” he’d enthused, flapping his arms in the way he had when he was agitated.

“I’m not going to contradict you,” I’d replied, “I know next to nothing about opera in general and even less about this one.”

“You’ll love it,” he’d said. “It’s got everything, including Jack the Ripper. You need shaking up a little.”

Of course, he’d say that.

I was in Italy on a sabbatical, after having spent the previous year and a half mourning the end of my marriage. I had been Carole’s husband for four years and we’d still be together if she hadn’t miscarried. She blamed me and I let her do that.

Our life together had been far from blissful, but it had been ordinary; if it was good enough for the majority of couples, who was I to ask for more? And what would constitute ‘more’ anyway? 

She had welcomed my so-called frigidity: she didn’t care for sex and neither did I.

The distant past, a time when I might have indulged in carnality, seemed so unrelated to my present state of being that I barely considered it as mine.

 

In the end, I had taken the ticket and had not asked why Rudy had bought only one instead of two or more. Unlike me, he was the gregarious sort; the way I had been or the mask I had once worn.

He was wealthy and extremely well connected, and was involved in several renovations projects, including that of Palazzo Grimani and of the Fondazione Querini Stampalia.

I’d never understood whether he had a profession or if he was simply a gifted amateur. He contrived to appear both open and impervious to enquiries of a personal nature. I suspected that he was gay, but he’d never introduced me to a partner, either ex or current. He was extroverted, generous and kind, but as tightly shut as an oyster.

 

I had never been inside La Fenice, but I was fascinated by its history: faithful to its name, the opera house had been destroyed by fire twice already and had been reborn from its ashes.

I left my apartment in Calle di Mezzo with ten minutes to spare. The walk was a short one, but I still wasn’t used to the labyrinthine networks of _calli_ and bridges and I had lost my way more times than it was good for my ego.

It would have been more sensible to move here in the spring, but on the wings of a New Year’s resolution, I had accepted Rudy’s invitation and left the States at the beginning of January.

Two weeks later, I was on my way to the opera.

 

I was shown into a front row box on the left-hand side of the stage and was politely informed that drinks were not allowed in the auditorium. I nodded and thanked the usher, but I was distracted by the turquoise and gold-encrusted ceiling and by the sharp contrast between chalk-white stucco and red velvet. The box seated four yet I was going to be alone. On the chair next to mine was a pair of opera glasses: I doubted they would be needed, since the box was alarmingly close to the stage.

For a moment, I wondered if Rudy had an ulterior motive for luring me there, but there was no time for reveries, since the lights went down and, after the last tide of whispers and coughs receded, the curtain was lifted.

 

Rudy had been right: the story had captivated me and the performances were as enthralling as the staging and the music. The first interval caught me by surprise and, as I queued at the bar, I heard a woman compare Wise to Stratas; her companion agreed with her that the latter had been too old to play the seductress.

When my turn came, I was once again astonished to find out that champagne was included in my ticket and that more would be waiting for me at the second intermission.

 

I was sipping my glass of Perrier-Jouët and drifting through the crowd, picking up snatches of conversation, hearing but not listening, my mind still filled with the sounds and images of Lulu.

Later, I couldn’t tell whether it had been one specific person or more than one, if – akin to a jigsaw puzzle – the pieces had been scattered and I had slotted them together. Perhaps I had latched onto the mention of the instrument and from then on, I had, by law of attraction, conjured up the missing information.

 

I went back to my box doubly inebriated by the alcohol and by the name which rang out inside of me.

There had been an onstage band in Act I, but without a piano, so he had to be part of the pit orchestra.

The lights were about go down so I grabbed the opera glasses and searched for him.

 

I could not see his face, but I was certain that it was him.

The programme would have told me for sure, but I was too stunned to think of it.

There was that slender, graceful back that I had admired, and those shoulders which had once been narrower and more fragile. His curly hair was longer and unruly. His posture was impeccable and there was a stillness in him which, for some reason, caused me pain someplace near the sternum.

 

The second act was torture and when the auditorium was illuminated again, the orchestra had already left. I didn’t want to leave the box in case he came back, but I was dying for another drink. And I needed to stretch my legs and cadge a cigarette. I had quit when Carole and I were trying for a baby—but I didn’t want to dwell on that. This time, the glass of champagne was waiting for me on the counter, so I drained it in one gulp and headed outside. The fog had risen from the canals and was slowly enveloping the buildings, like steam in a Turkish bath.

I shuddered and met the gaze of an elderly woman wrapped in a mahogany mink coat. She arched her plucked eyebrows and fiddled with the clasp of her handbag.

“I should get rid of it,” she remarked, “But it was a present and one becomes sentimental, with age.”

I offered to help and she accepted. When I finally succeeded in opening it, she took out a silver case and offered me a slim Dunhill. She didn’t say another word, didn’t even comment on the opera or ask me my name, but when she was done smoking, she patted me on the shoulder and said, “Whatever it is, it will pass, don’t worry. Everything does, alas.”

 

He was turned to the side to speak with another musician, so I could study his profile. Not much had changed, from what I could gather, and yet he was different; not as sparkly, maybe, but his behaviour could be dictated by the situation. I could not judge until I spoke to him, I said to myself. That conclusion caught me unawares, as though it had been formulated by a separate self and I had accepted it as a fait accompli.

 

The third act seemed endless, but the end eventually came, and with it the standing ovation to the performers, including the musicians.

For a delirious moment, he seemed to be staring straight at me, even though I had moved far into the recesses of the box to avoid being seen.

I looked at him, his face magnified by the binoculars: he was taller than I recalled, and more angular. He was also less himself, at least the version of him that I had carried with me during all those blank years.

This new version won’t like me, I thought.

 

I had never been a fan of anybody, so that was my first time waiting outside a stage door. Before that, I had another drink, this time a whisky and soda.

The Dutch courage didn’t come to my aid: my heart was thumping and I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Luckily, he was among the first to come out of the building; he said goodbye to a couple of his colleagues and stopped to light a cigarette. He succeeded at his third attempt.

I cleared my throat, “Horrid weather,” I said.

He didn’t turn to look at me, didn’t show any sign that he’d recognised my voice. People were still pouring out of the theatre and coming between us, chattering and disappearing into the brumous night.

“I don’t talk to strangers,” he muttered.

“Not even to fans?”

He snorted, “I don’t have any.”

“Maybe you do.”

“Go away,” he sounded tired and uninterested.

I could have called his name or walked up to him, but I didn’t dare.

“I was wondering,” I said, as he blew out a ring of smoke, “What it would have been like if Wagner had written it instead.”

He uttered a sound of derision.

“You clearly know nothing about Berg,” he sneered.

“About as much as I knew of Busoni, or Bach for that matter.”

“What the,” his voice rose up then broke, and at last he was standing in front of me.

“Oliver?” he frowned, “Did you,” he shook his long curls, “No, I really don’t want to know.” He stared at me, as though he was itemising my features, but there was no pleasure of recognition and - equally - no hatred.

“I never go to the opera,” I said, “A friend gave me his ticket.”

I sensed that he wanted to get rid of me and I grasped at the first straw I could devise.

“May I offer you a hot drink?” I asked, “You look like you could do with it.”

He was silent for a while, during which he finished his cigarette.

“Only if you promise not to tell me the story of your life,” he replied.

“Done,” I said, “There’s a _bar caffetteria_ at the other end of that bridge.”

“Yeah, I have walked past it many times. You can’t see inside.”

I nodded, smiling. “They don’t clean the glass on purpose.”

“Is that true?” There, I rejoiced, was a glimpse of the Elio of yesteryear.

“It’s my theory and I will swear by it.”

We walked side by side, never touching. I sensed that he was making sure he wouldn’t brush against me by mistake.

The Bar Felice wasn’t very different from the one where I had once gone to play cards,  that summer in 1983, flaunting my body and my familiarity with the locals: it had the same stale atmosphere, and an old jukebox tucked into a corner, not far from the ice-cream freezer.

“Coffee or hot chocolate?” I asked him.

“Camomile tea with lemon,” he replied.

“ _Due camomille al limone_ , _per favore_ ,” I said to signora Clelia, a fifty-something matron who never smiled.

“Your Italian accent has improved,” he commented, as he sat at a table by the door.

“I’m practising a lot,” I replied, “How about you, how long have you been here?”

He shrugged.

“A friend of mine had a minor accident and asked me to replace him. I’ll be with the Philharmonic for six months at least.”

Clelia deposited two mugs and a teapot on the table.

“I never imagined you’d end up in an orchestra,” I said, as I poured the pale liquid into his cup.

“It’s regular work and well paid,” he explained, “But it’s too tedious to discuss.”

I had an inkling that he meant himself; that he was not an interesting topic of conversation.

He blew on the piping hot drink and I took advantage of this distraction in order to gaze at his face: up close, he was devastatingly handsome, with nothing of the gaucheness of adolescence. He was all fine bones and creamy complexion, with no sign of facial hair, apart from the silky fuzz crowning his upper lip.

Suddenly, his eyes met mine and the shock that ran through me left him unmoved.

My Elio was gone, perhaps forever.


	2. Rat Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation, a goodbye, and a plot is being hatched...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks so very much for the amazing response to the story so far: you are the best!!!
> 
> Secondly: the anecdote about Bocaraton is 100% true and I owe it to an amazing book called City of the Falling Angels. 
> 
> Thirdly: Olga Rudge was the lover of Ezra Pound and she also was a great violinist. The plot of The Aspern Papers incredibly anticipates what happened to Rudge and the papers left to her by Pound.

During our summer of love, my conversations with Elio had been a challenging affair: at the start he’d been secretive and easily offended; afterwards, he’d alternated between monosyllabic answers and breathless disquisitions; in the end, when we’d become lovers, he’d been the perfect companion: erudite but never boring, mixing poetry with gossip, profanities and endearments.

The young man sitting in front of me was not wearing a mask but an impenetrable shield. He had warned me against asking about his life and he did not want to know about mine, so that left precious little to talk about.

I didn’t want him to leave without having made some form of connection or I’d never be able to approach him again.

Venice was small enough that we were bound to meet once in a while, and besides I knew where he worked and the time when I'd be sure to find him.

Desperately, I grappled for something that would make him smile the way he’d used to.

And then it came to me, as he stirred sugar into his second mug of _camomilla_.

“The other night, I was at a dinner party with this friend of mine,” I started.

“The one who gave you the ticket,” he offered.

“Yes, his name is Rudy, by the way.”

He snorted, “A playboy’s name.”

“Rüdiger Soriani De Vries is certainly _not_ a playboy,” I retorted, but in fact I couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t.

“That’s a mouthful,” Elio said, “No wonder he prefers Rudy.”

“I don’t know that he does, but that’s what friends call him.”

If I’d hoped to pique his curiosity, it was in vain: he looked at me placidly, as though it didn’t matter one jot whether I recounted the anecdote or not.

“It was a mixed crowd: some nobility, a sprinkle of academia and a dash of business. Apparently that’s quite common here.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied, “I work and teach in my spare time. Not that I have much, considering the rehearsals.”

“You must have _some_ social life,” I ventured.

He frowned. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, and stood up to leave.

“Please, just-- stay, I won’t pry again, I promise.”

He stared at me to ascertain my sincerity and he sat down again.

“I’m tired and I need a hot bath.”

The pain in the sternum returned; I had to cough to dislodge it a little.

“You will like my story, I’m sure of it,” I bluffed, “So, like I said, mixed crowd, and I was placed next to this corpulent man with red hair which was probably a wig. He said he was a chef, told me his name, I’d never heard of it, so I asked him what sort of cuisine and he replied that he cooked for the rats.”

Elio’s eyes widened. I felt a surge of elation disproportionate to his reaction.

“It turned out that he was the owner of the best-selling rat poison Bocaraton.”

“That’s a city in Florida,” he said.

“And a brand of rat poison,” I replied, “Basically, he’d concocted the formula himself and what’s so great about it is that it won’t hurt them until a few days after they’ve ingested it.”

“But surely they’ll just throw it up.”

“They don’t because they physically can’t.”

He had a disgusted expression.

“It’s a terrible story. Rats are vermin but,” he shook his head vigorously then smacked my upper arm, “Why did you tell it to me? That’s horrible.”

The slap had not been hard, but my skin still tingled from it.

“It’s not finished.”

“There’s more?” He covered his ears with his hands. “I don’t want to hear it. I will have nightmares as it is.”

I laughed and the flash of a grin illuminated his features.

“This man, Massimo is his name, continued to explain that his product is so successful because he adds to it some of the favourite ingredients of each country he sells it to. Would you like to know what Italian rats like to eat?”

“Pasta, I imagine.”

“Yes, and what else?”

“Olive oil, surely, and espresso.”

“You left something out.”

He shrugged.

“I once knew a boy who had it for breakfast every day,” I said, waiting for the lightning to strike. And it did. Elio bit his lips then he chewed the inside of his cheek but his eyes were full of laughter. I could have cried and I didn’t even know exactly why it was so important for me to make him laugh.

“You are kidding me,” he argued.

“No, straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak: the Italian Bocaraton is filled with Nutella. Massimo buys tons of it. He even proposed to endorse it publicly, but Ferrero had a fit when he suggested it.”

“Nutella: even rats love it,” he chuckled, “Yeah, can’t imagine that being a good selling point.”

I beamed at him and he blushed, two red splotches on either cheekbone.

“Did you think of me when you heard that story?” he whispered.

“Nutella always reminds me of you,” I replied, feeling a strange warmth creep up my neck and ears. I was no longer used to sudden outbreaks of emotion.

We went back to sipping our teas in silence, but there was a different quality to the quiet between us: it was more companionable, less thorny.

He was the one who broke it. “You know what I’m doing here, so you might as well tell me about you. Not in detail, just the bare bones.”

“I’m taking time off work. Rudy invited me and here I am. My apartment is in a palazzo that’s being shut down for renovations. I’m moving tomorrow to Cannaregio, near the Ghetto.”

“The oldest in the world, the one which gave the name to all those that came after it,” he said, sounding very much like his father. I hadn’t heard from him in years, since Vimini’s death to be precise.

“Five hundred years,” I said, “But in this city it doesn’t seem so long ago.”

“The last two hundred years barely made a scratch on its surface,” he agreed, “All our petty concerns seem even more irrelevant.”

I thought of the baby Carole and I had lost: the ache was there but it had been lulled into a sort of stupor.

“You see, we shouldn’t have talked,” he said.

He was distant again, and the colour had gone from his face. I decided to take the bull by the horns.

“I am alone here and I have arrived only two weeks ago,” I said.

There was a flash of what I believed was fear in his eyes, but I could have been wrong.

“If you are looking for a guide to show you the sights, that’s not who I am, not anymore,” he replied. “Now I’m going home because I’m cold and exhausted.”

I paid the bill and left a tip in the ashtray by the cash register.

Elio was already outside and I kept staring at him, afraid that he’d disappear in to the fog.

“Let me walk you home,” I said, in a pleading tone.

“There’s no need,” he answered, “I live around the corner.”

“And you don’t want me to know where,” I suggested.

He didn’t deny it.

“It’s been nice talking to you.”

He offered me his gloved hand to shake. I wanted to hug him instead, but it didn’t seem appropriate. I left it too long and he read it as a rejection.

“You can’t get what you want this time,” he gritted out, “It’s no use, no use at all.”

He turned and strode away. I watched him go then ran after him.

“Listen,” I said, when I caught up with him on the bridge, “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you wish me to do. But we are here, and it’s winter and the city is nearly empty--”

That earned me an icy glare, “I know this song,” he said, “You’ve already sung it to me, remember? It was a good song, but not so good that I’d want to hear it again.” He spoke calmly, and every word went through me like a needle.

His indifference brought me back to earth. After all, I was in Venice to convalesce and perhaps I too needed peace and quiet, not another set of problems to solve.

Suddenly, something emerged from the canal and scuttled towards a narrow alleyway.

“An enormous rat,” Elio exclaimed.

“Too much Nutella,” I chimed in, “Better watch his waistline.”

Laughter bubbled up and spilled out of him like it had in the past; that gargling, childish sound I’d have recognised anywhere. The desire to touch him was so strong I could hardly contain it. In the end, it was he who patted my arm as he said goodbye. He was nearly out of sight when he turned and waved at me.

 

I got lost three times that night and it was nearly one in the morning when I went to bed. The sheets were cold despite the heating having been on all evening; the palazzo had high ceilings and bad insulation. I wondered where Elio slept and with whom, whether he had a partner or just occasional adventures; one night stands or meaningful relationships. I didn’t think the latter was possible, because he’d not seemed amenable to being touched.

And then, moments before I fell asleep, I felt what had eluded me for such a long time: the desire for another body.

 

The following day and the one after that I was busy moving into my new accommodation inside Palazzo da Silva, which had once been the British Embassy.  My apartment was on the ground floor and had a view of the Misericordia Canal. On the other side were the headquarters of the Communist Party. The windows had iron bars, and mesh wire screens to keep the rats out.

When my landlord told me what they were for, I laughed and he looked at me as though I were crazy but then he joined in. I wished I could tell Elio, or better still, I wanted to invite him for dinner and show him everything: the marble floors, the beamed ceilings, the upstairs library - to which I had been given the keys, the _piano nobile_ , that was off-limits, but who cared if Elio was with me?

 

All these flights of fancy would have come to nothing if Rudy hadn’t told me about Olga Rudge. We were in his library and he was showing me a first edition of poems by Ezra Pound.

“He’s buried here, in San Michele,” he said, referring to the cemetery island.

“I had no idea,” I replied, “Not sure I like him very much.”

Rudy glanced at my Star of David and made a face. “No, of course not,” he hesitated a moment before continuing, “But he was not all there you know?”

“He was a great poet,” I argued, “You can’t have it both ways.”

“Pity,” he went on, “I was hoping you could help us.”

“Who’s ‘us’ and help you with what,” I asked.

“My friend Joan, you know the sculptress I told you about.”

I nodded, and the story he told me closely resembled the plot of Henry James’s The Aspern Papers.

“Did you make that up?”

He insisted that it was all true and would I go and talk to Signora Rudge?

“Why would she talk to me?”

“She was a celebrated violinist,” was his non-sequitur, and that gave me an idea.

“Maybe she’d be happier talking to a fellow musician,” I said.

Rudy greeted my suggestion with great enthusiasm, unaware of the favour he’d just bestowed on me.


	3. A Silent Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange encounter and a mind is made up, at last...
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> Next chapter: Oliver goes to find Elio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe The City of Falling Angels a huge debt for introducing me to all these wonderful people, such as poet Mario Stefani. Everything I wrote about him in this chapter is true (including the quote about adoring boys). The poem is "Memoria felice mi possiede". Stefani committed suicide, but some suggested it may have been an erotic game gone wrong. 
> 
> Once again, thanks so much for your support: it means a lot!!!

The days went by, and I allowed uncertainty – and fear – to hold sway: why would Elio be interested in my dubious scheme and wouldn’t he see through it immediately and reject it as an attempt to regain his trust? If he said no, I wouldn’t have the nerve to try again.

In the meantime, Rudy had been obliged to go to New York for an emergency meeting of an organisation he was member of, and I was at loose ends. Venice was eerily quiet especially at night, when the lapping of water against stones was the only sound that reached me inside the renovated sixteenth century rooms which I occupied.

Life could be so easy here, I pondered, while I looked out of my window to the other side of the canal: at the butcher taking the daily delivery of his meat from a a barge, at the Trattoria owner setting his tables and chairs out, at the workshop of the oar-maker whose elaborately carved implements were justly renowned among all gondoliers. The pulse of life followed the tides and demanded nothing but respect for the city’s traditions and love of its quirks.

I could have spent days doing nothing but reading and sightseeing, with the thought of Elio always at the back of my mind, but Rudy had asked for a favour on behalf of the Fondazione Querini Stampalia: I was to meet a local poet, a man named Mario Stefani, who wished to leave his collection of books and letters to the museum.

“Is he a famous poet?” I’d asked my friend and he’d taken me to the Rialto food market, where he’d shown me a graffiti in red spray-paint. It said: _solitude is not being alone; it’s loving others to no avail_.   

“Did he do that? You said he was middle-aged,” I’d argued.

Rudy had laughed heartily.

“You have to understand the Venetian psyche,” he’d said, “And Stefani is one of its most representative specimens.”

“What else do I need to know about him?”

“I’d rather you met him without prejudice and made up your own mind,” Rudy had replied. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he tried to impress you, one way or the other.”

I had asked him to clarify what he meant, but he’d refused to answer any more of my questions.

It was a Saturday and Stefani had agreed to meet me at the Trattoria al Ponte in Santa Croce, the district where he lived. It was three in the afternoon and I found him sipping grappa from a glass the size of a thimble. He was in his late forties, robust, with a mane of tangled grey hair, and he wore red braces and bright coral sneakers.

“Oliver?” he said, pronouncing my name the same way as Mafalda had.

“Signor Stefani,” I replied, but he immediately demanded that I called him Mario.

Instead of shaking my hand, he hugged me and smiled warmly.

“Please sit down and have something to drink,” he said, treating me as though I was his guest. I accepted an espresso, which was brought to me by a young waiter. When the boy walked away, the poet followed him with his eyes, and at least one mystery was solved. Not that it was one, as I was about to find out.

“Mr De Vries told me that you are the author of the graffiti near Rialto,” I said, to test the waters.

The man chuckled.

“Rudy is doing me a favour,” he replied, “Free publicity is always welcome. What else has he revealed?”

“Nothing, but he told me that your portrait has been painted by De Chirico.”

“He was a friend of mine, that’s true, same as Moravia, which is why the Fondazione is so eager to acquire my collection of letters.”

“If you are willing to donate it and it’s a done deal, why has he sent me to meet you?” I said, wondering at my own bluntness.

The man ordered another grappa, shamelessly ogling the brown-eyed waiter.

“I host a programme on television,” he explained, “It’s about literature – the subject I teach – and about love, unrequited love, especially.”

I looked at my empty cup and wished I had never quit smoking.

“You know,” he started, in a confidential tone which sent sparks of alarm up my spine, “Telling the truth is the most anti-conformist act I know. I have always been honest about my desire for the male, for strong muscles and an adolescent body, a desire that has given me so much suffering and so much pleasure.”

Without so much as a moment’s hesitation, he slid his hand inside the pocket of his coat and fished out a pack of Marlboro, which he then placed in front of me on the table. I plucked one out and he lit it for me.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” he went on, “I wrote so many poems about this, the compulsion to kneel down in adoration in front of a beautiful boy.”

I felt like I had been pushed inside the freezing slush of the Canal Grande. Here was a stranger not much younger than my father, proclaiming his penchant for young men openly, almost boasting about it. I was stunned into silence.

“Come with me,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

We walked in near silence and after a while reached a street dotted with shops; one of them was a fruit-and-vegetable dealer. Stefani took me aside, “Pretend to look at the scarves in this _vetrina_ , but keep an eye on that door.” I was still shocked from his previous revelations and did as told. After a few minutes, a man of my age or thereabouts, tall, with short auburn hair, came out, carrying a basket filled with red potatoes. Despite the cold, he was in short sleeves and his biceps swelled under the tight t-shirt.

“That’s Nicola,” the poet said, in a dreamy tone, “I’m madly in love with him, but he’s engaged to be married.”

For a brief instant, I was tempted to punch him in the face. Was this a set-up and if so, how did he know about my past?

“You are wondering why I’m confiding in you,” he said, as we made our way back to Santa Croce, “But if you think about it, we always tend to be more outspoken with strangers. Venetians know me and I know them: if I went to a psychoanalyst, even he would recognise me and I’d be bound to play to the gallery, so to speak.”

“Haven’t you done the same with me?” I argued, with a tinge of bitterness.

He stopped dead in the middle of the Campo San Giacomo. A couple of pigeons flew down and pecked at the ground.

“Not for a second, my dear,” he exclaimed, his lively eyes open wide, “I thought I recognised a kindred spirit, that’s all. Forgive me if I’ve offended you.”

I asked him for another cigarette and he gave me the pack.

“Keep it,” he insisted.

“I could buy my own; I’m only being stubborn.”

We traded smiles.

“I sense that it’s one of your features,” he joked.

“I wasn’t brought up to appreciate truth-telling, like you have. I was always shamed into behaving properly, like society demanded.”

He nodded vigorously.

“Ah, society, that demented witch,” he proclaimed.

“One of your poems?”

“Could be,” he grinned, “We are not far from my apartment. I could show you some of my works and you could tell me more about you, if you like.”

It was getting dark and the fog was like humid ice.

“With pleasure,” I said, and followed him up a steep flight of steps to a lovely seventeenth century building inside which were his rooms. It was the messiest home I’d ever been into: books and stacks of paper on every surface, paintings and watercolours with and without frames, sculptures and objects of Murano glass, soiled rags and unfinished clay vases were scattered around the large salon in which he evidently spent most of his time.

I noticed a box filled with penis-shaped knick-knacks; I didn’t mention it, but he caught me looking.

“I collect them as a joke. I’m not heavily into this kind of things,” he explained, “I prefer words, and more than that, I like to do it rather than paint it, if you know what I mean.”

I did know, and I agreed with him.

He invited me to sit on the battered leather couch and offered me a glass of prosecco, while he selected the book he wanted to show me.

When he found it, he sat opposite me and started to read. The title of the collection was “A Silent Desperation” and the verses he quoted were:

“ _Of time I ask nothing but a dream come true; I speak your sweet name softly, and I say it again and again, alone I listen to it, a contented memory possesses me, glimpses of your face haunt me, of your doe-like slenderness, and of time I ask nothing but a dream come true_.”

I drained my glass and he poured me another, a wry smile on his lips.

“That bad is it?”

I cleared my throat and it was with a raspy voice that I replied: “You are like a conjurer. Everything you’ve said; it’s as if you had seen inside my head.”

“Or your heart, more like.”

I realised that he was waiting for my confession and I found myself eager to share my burden. I told him about Elio, about our too-short time together, and before that, of my family, their commitment to tradition and convention. I didn’t mention Carole, but I did say that I’d been married and that we had lost our baby. It was harder to speak of Elio’s coldness, of his detachment and of his apathetic demeanour, but I had to do it in order to ask for the advice I so badly needed.

All through my narration, he stared me in the eye, drinking up word after word: I suspected they’d work their way into one or more of his poems, but it didn’t bother me.

When I was done, he immediately asked me a question:

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to see him again, spend more time with him.”

He shook his head so violently his hair tumbled down to cover his face; he pushed it away with impatient fingers.

“No, no, _amico mio_ ,  what is it that you really want? The end of your film, what does it show?”

I was drinking my third glass of wine and feeling increasingly daring.

“I want Elio to be happy and for us to be friends.”

“Only friends, are you sure of that?”

I wasn’t.

“When you said,” I stuttered, the words burning my lips, “That you feel compelled to kneel down in adoration---”

“---of a beautiful boy, yes, of course I do; and is that what you want to do with your young man?”

I nodded, touching my burning cheeks with the back of my hand.

“But I doubt he’d let me,” I went on, “He probably hates me and with good reason. I also think there’s something more serious that I don’t know about.”

“Like what, a secret, you mean?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure, but I, I found it odd that he would be part of the Fenice orchestra instead of being a concert pianist. He's so talented and I’m not only saying it because of what I, well, you know.”

He made a face, “And the reputation of that orchestra in nothing to write home about, let me tell you.”

“But surely if they were chosen to perform in one of the most renowned opera theatres in the world,” I objected.

“We Venetians are a peculiar breed, as you’ll eventually realise, but let’s not stray from the main topic: your beautiful boy. You’ll have to invent a good enough excuse to approach him.”

I didn’t want to divulge the story of the Pound Foundation and the possible theft of the writer’s papers, which Rudy had wished me to find out about. Stefani was on television and the last thing I needed was to be indicted for libel or slander.

“I may have a way,” I replied, “But I don’t know where to find him. I could wait for him outside the theatre, but since I’ll get one shot at it, I’d prefer to catch him when he’s not tetchy and tired.”

He slapped my back and laughed.

“If your Elio works for la Fenice, he will stay at the Fenice et Des Artistes, they all do. The owner is Signora Vendetta and she dotes on her guests like any Italian _mamma_.”

“Vendetta, is that her name? Revenge?”

“She’s a lovely old lady who knits, plays cards and is an amazing cook. At least your Elio won’t starve. Tomorrow is Sunday, the day of our Lord, so he won’t be working. If you show up at around one in the afternoon, you’ll probably find him in the dining room. He’ll be more pliant after a good lunch.”


	4. Eternal Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes to find Elio...
> 
> I told you this was a slow burn and so it is, but when it does burn, it'll be scorching hot, I promise.
> 
> I love you all!!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Giudecca garden is still not open to the public.

 

That night I went to bed early with a volume of novellas by Henry James.

I intended to read The Aspern Papers: it was the story closest to the reality of the Ezra Pound Foundation and it had been written in Palazzo Barbaro, a stone’s throw from Rudge’s cottage in Dorsoduro.

Stefani’s words were still resonating in my head and – try as I might – I couldn’t concentrate on the intricate prose.

The male, the poet had said, the strong muscles and the adolescent body: images of Elio’s stomach, of his shoulders and back, of his ass and neck, flashed in front of my eyes; they made me blush even though I was on alone.

At the same time, I was preparing my speech, selecting my arguments with care in order to avoid stepping on the landmines which might set Elio off. The problem was that I had no idea where they might be buried; the obvious ones, yes, but the deadliest could be those unknown to me.

Another issue - which I wasn’t yet ready to admit to myself – was that of my physical reaction to these past recollections of Elio. I was aroused for the first time in months, and with the potential of getting more worked up, in a way I hadn’t felt since--- I leafed through the book once again, attempting to immerse myself in the narrator’s obsession with Aspern, but only succeeding in wondering about Rudy’s involvement in my present predicament. I’d known him since before my marriage, but I hadn’t seen him in a long time, until we'd met by chance inside the Mendoza bookstore. That beloved institution was about to close down and I’d felt as though it was another nail in the coffin of my permanence in the States. The decrepit building in 15 Ann Street had seemed like a metaphor for all my relationships: filled with memories but not destined to last.

Rudy had been there to say goodbye to the place, but he had laughed at my maudlin attitude.

“It’s hardly the end of the world,” he’d joked, “But if you prefer a city untouched by time, you should come to Venice. You could stay with me indefinitely.”

I had told him I’d think about it and in the end I had agreed to ,provided that I could have my own rooms. He’d sighed and called me a madman, but he’d promised he’d find me a place to stay. If he hadn’t been so convincing I might have chickened out, but Rudy had always been talented at finding people’s weakest spot and prodding it. I’d needed change and he’d provided it.

 

Sunday morning was grey and windy, which at least meant no fog.

I took a long bath, admiring the stuccoed ceiling while sipping coffee. I was never too worried or too anxious to fail to appreciate the magnificence of my surroundings: this palace - it would have been a museum where I came from - was mine to rent for a risible price compared to its worth. I had a wish to make the most of it, to become a better version of myself.

My landlord and his wife had invited me to lunch upstairs, on the _piano nobile_ of the palazzo.

Peter and Rose Lamberts were from Boston but had moved to Italy in the 1970s and never looked back.

While we enjoyed the juicy _baccalà_ with _radicchio trevigiano_ , I mentioned the Guggenheim Museum, hinting that I’d heard that the Director’s wife was American.

“Jane’s the power behind the throne,” she said, “ _Un’arpia_ , if you ask me, a real harpy.”

Peter threw her an affectionate yet reproving look.

“Don’t scare Oliver off,” he said, and to me, “She’s a very determined woman and quite blunt. But we Americans are used to it.”

Rose protested that after two decades in the city she was a Venetian and that, while she didn’t mind rudeness, she objected to scheming and thieving.

I couldn’t ask what she meant because Peter changed the subject, asking me whether I’d heard about the secret garden on the Giudecca.

“I thought there was a prison there,” I said.

“There is that too,” he replied, “And behind it is the garden of Eden. Literally, because it belonged to an Englishman named Eden.”

Rose chuckled, shaking her long wavy hair, “You couldn’t make it up.”

“And now it’s owned by the Austrian artist Hundertwasser and he won’t allow anyone to see it,” her husband concluded.

“Venice is not very green so that’s pretty selfish of him,” she observed, “Carnival revellers have tried more than once to break in but they did not succeed.”

“He has his reasons,” Peter chided, “He wants to preserve it as a thing of beauty, in which he allows nature to take its course.”

“Is that a good idea?” Rose asked, obviously believing the opposite.

“The Japanese seem to think otherwise,” I said, “Look at the bonsai, for instance.”

She shuddered. “Cruelty, that’s what it is. You wouldn’t do this to a person, would you, stunting their growth.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic, _amore_. No one’s suggesting trees are like people, I hope.”

“And anyway it’s better to stay clear of the Garden of Eden,” I said, to lighten up the mood, “Its standards are too high for ordinary people.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rose argued, with a glint in her eye, “I’ve not given up yet. Carnival is just around the corner, after all,” she winked, and we all laughed.

 

The Hotel Fenice et Des Artistes was in Calle della Fenice, just behind the Theatre. Elio must have smiled to himself when I’d proposed to walk him home, since what I had done was to take him away from it instead.

Like many such buildings, it was not directly accessible from the street: a wrought iron gate opened into a small courtyard and up three steps into the front entrance of the pensione. I don’t know why they called it a hotel when in fact it was more similar to luxury student lodgings. The lobby was a vast room with a number of Tiffany lamps and Chesterfield sofas, but its most astounding feature was its emptiness. No one was there: no receptionist, no owner, no guests, not one human being except for me.

In the air were the lingering smell of minestrone and the sound of a radio or cassette player.

I rang the oversized bell on the unmanned counter.

After a minute or so, a portly woman with dyed brown hair and black rimmed glasses ambled in. That must be Vendetta, I thought.

She looked me up and down, appreciating what she was seeing, but saying nothing.

“Sorry for the noise, but I didn’t know what else to do,” I said, in way of apology.

“It’s nice isn’t it,” she replied, wiping her hands on the colourful apron she was wearing over a purple woollen sweater-dress. “I got it from the workshop of the Opera house. They give us all their discarded props; we are very lucky.”

I nodded, glancing at her eyes, which were magnified by the thick lenses.

“I was looking for a friend of mine,” I said, “He’s part of the Fenice orchestra and his name’s Perlman.”

Her lined, jowly face brightened considerably.

“Elio’s my baby,” she exclaimed, “But he should get out more. I always tell him: Elio, _tesoro_ , you’ll lose your sight like me, if you read all the time. I don’t read, but I like to knit and it’s bad for the eyes.”

I agreed and asked whether Elio was in.

“He’s in the _salottino_ at the back,” she replied, “ _Vieni_ , I’ll show you the way.”

In the corridor, the music was louder and recognisable: the song that was playing was Texas’s ‘I Don’t Want a Lover’. I would have groaned, but I didn’t want to alarm Signora Vendetta.

“Shall I bring you coffee, yes?”

I thanked her and replied that perhaps later, but not just now.

“Of course, of course,” she agreed, “You are surprising him, yes?”

You have no idea, I wanted to say.

I smiled and signalled that, yes, it was a surprise.

She indicated the door of the _salottino_ then went on to wherever she was heading.

 

I knocked softly then louder, to be heard above the noise. I didn’t know why, but I had expected silence or perhaps some classical aria, but not pop music.

“Come in!” Elio shouted and – after drawing a deep breath – I complied.

He probably expected Vendetta or someone else from the pensione, because he didn’t raise his eyes from the book he was reading. On the desk next to it was a large pad on which he was writing.  A curtain of curls was shielding his face and his hands were partially covered by the too-long sleeves of a green Aran sweater.

I stood there, speechless, without a single coherent thought in my head.

“What is it?” he asked impatiently and then he looked up and saw me.

 

I’d imagined that he’d be angry and perhaps that he’d shout at me, ordering me to go, but he did none of those things.

He put on a resigned expression and invited me to sit in one of the shabby armchairs that littered the room.

“I was sure you’d come, sooner or later,” he said, chewing the end of his biro.

“Did you follow me the other night or did you come back again?”

“I’d never,” I started, before realising that it would be a lie, that I would have followed him if Stefani hadn’t advised where I could find him. “Someone suggested this place.”

He sniggered. “Would that someone be your friend Rudy?”

“No, not Rudy: he’s gone to New York.”

“I see,” he said, cold and cutting, “You are all alone and so you thought of me. Poor old Elio: the perfect stopgap, the ideal second choice when the first one is not available.”

I was the one getting angry now.

“I’d never do that to you,” I hissed.

“You have and you will again, I bet,” he replied, quietly. “And it doesn’t matter, not any more. We are what we are: it’s pointless to resent people for things they can’t help.”

“Nature taking its course,” I said, remembering Peter’s words.

Elio was momentarily taken aback but he quickly recovered his aplomb.

“Yes, exactly,” he said, “But I am sorry, I can’t be your tourist guide this time. As you can see, I am busy preparing tomorrow’s lesson. I teach at the Conservatorio Benedetto Marcello three days a week, including Mondays.”

I wanted to make him understand that he couldn’t have been more wrong, but I sensed that it wasn’t the right approach. Six years had elapsed since the day I’d left him and his last memory of me was my refusal to kiss him or even hug him after I’d announced that was getting married. If I swore to him how much he mattered to me, he wouldn’t believe me. I had to tackle the issue from another angle.

“The truth is,” I said, staring at his lovely face, “That I need your help.”

“I’m not getting involved in your affairs again.”

“Not my affairs, but a fellow musician’s,” I replied, “A lady whose name you know for certain.”

The Bangles were starting to sing Eternal Flame when Elio stood up and switched off the radio cassette player.

“I like that song,” I protested.

“No you don’t,” he bit back, but he was smiling.

“I can sing it to you, I know it by heart.”

I started to hum it and he covered his ears and scrunched up his nose.

“Never do that again,” he wailed, “It’s worse than Vendetta’s cow bell.”

“I’ll go on if you don’t listen to what I have to say.”

“Okay, okay, but I can’t give you more than thirty minutes,” he conceded.

“And you promise me you’ll think about it and not say no just because it’s me.”

“Well--”

“ _Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling, do you feel my heart beating_ ,” I sang, and he whimpered, “Yes, all right, I promise!”

I should have been offended but I was only happy to see the smile in his eyes.


	5. Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver finds out what happened to Elio.
> 
> I have updated the tags so please pay attention to them.
> 
> I am very sorry but remember that it's all in the past.

During the time I’d spent with Elio, he’d been overjoyed, morose and everything in between, but I’d never seen the expression painted on his face as I finished telling him about the reason of my visit: it was a blend of incredulity, sarcasm and mistrust.

“Why doesn’t your friend Rudy deal with it himself?” was his first question. It had been mine too, so I had the answer ready.

“He’s well known in Venice and he cannot afford to make enemies in the art world, considering his position.”

Elio bit the end of his pen and I’d never been more envious of an inanimate object, except – maybe – for his piano.

“What is his position exactly?”

“He’s on the board of Save Venice and he’s helping with the renovation of Palazzo Grimani and of Querini Stampalia.”                         

“Is he an architect or a restorer?”

I shook my head, “Neither,” I replied, “But they need someone who was born here, who can speak English and Italian and who knows how to deal with Venetian bureaucracy, which is hell on earth apparently.”

Elio’s repartee was cut short by the entrance of a young man who went straight for the cassette player.

“Do you mind if I borrow the new Simply Red?” he asked, as though I was invisible.

“It’s in there,” Elio replied, indicating the white shoe box on the bookshelf.

“Found it,” the man said, “ _Grazie_ , and see you later.” He waved his hand at me and left. His intrusion had been so well-timed it had reminded me of a scene in a French farce.

“That’s Alberto,” Elio explained, “He’s a flautist.”

“A rude flautist,” I corrected.

“Only on Sundays,” he grinned. “The rest of the week he’s extremely polite.”

He was also tall and rather good looking, and in good enough terms with Elio to get in and out of his study without so much as a by-your-leave. I had been staring at the door from which he had disappeared and, naturally, Elio had noticed.

“I don’t think he likes men,” he remarked, “But the same could have been said of you. I’m not a reliable source, when it comes to that sort of things.”

“What sort?”

“The intimate sort,” he replied. The screen had come down again. “Anyway, if you like Alberto, his rooms are at the end of the first floor corridor, on the right hand side.”

I swallowed my anger and waited a couple of beats before speaking.

“I’m not in the least interested, so quit the innuendos,” I said. The message hit home, as demonstrated by his pink cheeks.

The Feydeau farce went on with Vendetta coming in to ask whether we wanted coffee. She had two porcelain cups of it on a tray already, so it was a rhetorical question.  

“It’s like Piazza San Marco in here,” I remarked.

Elio giggled and I nearly burnt my tongue.

“You are the first person who’s come to see me,” he said, “They are curious.”

“Didn’t your parents come for opening night?”

He frowned. “They didn't, I asked them not to,” he replied, and I saw that he was distressed so I changed tack again.

“Would you come with me to the Hidden Nest?”

“Certainly not—wait, where?”

“That’s the name Pound gave to the house,” I said, smiling, “After all, Rudge was his lover.”

He deposited the empty cup on its saucer, making it rattle.

“Can’t say I give a shit about these two,” he said, testily, “He was a fascist and she supported him. You of all people should understand, since you are Jewish too.”

“I do, but, at the same time,” I stopped, struggling to articulate what I meant. “Aren’t we supposed to be better than them?”

He groaned. “And there it is: Oliver the Great, once more unto the breach. You always think you are right, that you are a cut above the rest.” He pressed the palm of his hands to his eyes. “You annoy the fuck out of me, you know that?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I replied, but he interjected, raising his voice, “Oh, and how did you mean it? You, the Greek god, the rich American, the walking and talking Praxiteles statue, tell me: how did you fucking mean it?”

“It doesn’t even make sense,” I quipped, “I can’t be Greek and American.”

“Get the hell out of here and leave me alone!” he shouted.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I shouted back.

He strode up to me and pushed me. I stood my ground and there was a brief scuffle during which the sleeves of his sweater had been rucked up so that his forearms were showing. At first, I didn’t see them, but it was Elio’s demeanour which made me aware that something was amiss: his eyes opened wide and he was shaking. Then he turned his back on me, but not before I had seen the scars on both his inner arms; I couldn’t count them, but there were many.

I reeled back and hit the the rim of an armchair; I let myself slump down on it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, still not showing his face to me.

My eyes and chest hurt, but they could wait.

“What is _it_?” I whispered. “Did you try to, when was---” I simply couldn’t contemplate _any_ of the possibilities.

“Nothing serious, no, and years ago,” he replied. He scratched the back of his head – that gesture I remembered so well and loved dearly. It was that gesture that had me on the verge of tears. I drew back from it because I did not deserve that comfort, and surely not in Elio’s presence.

“I never knew, no one said a word,” I babbled.

“You had your life to live,” he said, tersely, “And I had mine. Nature left to its own devices,” he let out a bitter chuckle. “Don’t beat yourself up: it wasn’t because of you.”

I went from sorrow to jaundiced jealousy in a heartbeat.

“Did someone hurt you?” I rasped. I imagined a sadistic monster and how I’d make him pay for what he’d done.

“Look, why don’t we leave things as they are? I’m doing well and so are you; we don’t need to be friends.”

I went up to him and he crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m not doing well, Elio. I haven’t been doing well for ages,” I said, and he finally looked into my eyes, “My marriage is over, I stopped writing, I had trouble sleeping without pills until I came here. The truth is that I’m a mess. Not a Greek god, more like the remains of Pompeii.”

He gave me a watery smile.

“I need a cigarette,” he said, and I offered him one from Mario’s pack.

We sat side by side on a moth-eaten couch and smoked in silence.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, after a while. “I tell you my story and you listen without asking questions. After that, we never speak of it again.”

“Unless you want to,” I replied. “If you change your mind and want to talk about it, I’ll always be willing to listen.”

“Until someone better comes along,” he countered.

“Stop it,” I said, “This isn’t the way--- please just tell me what happened.”

He stared at me then crushed the stub into an ashtray in the shape of a whale. I did the same.

“Ever heard about dyspraxia?” I nodded, “Usually it affects children, but sometimes, rarely, it can occur later in life. My doctor couldn’t tell me why, not for sure. After you left, the summer after--- I was getting frequent nosebleeds, couldn’t concentrate, had trouble sleeping; stress, they said, and prescribed rest, vitamins and iron. The real problem started when I realised I couldn’t play the piano: my fingers kept hitting the wrong keys, I couldn’t,” he exhaled loudly, “My coordination was shot to pieces. I used to think of you, of what you would have said, stuff like: pull yourself together, you can do it if you really want it.”

I raked my fingers through my hair, “I would _not_ have said _that_.”

He glared at me and I shut up.

“As time went on, things got worse until I refused to play,” he said, a fierce expression on his face. “What was the point: if I could not be great I’d rather be nothing at all. I got my Diploma, so I no longer had to school every day. I chose a university in Milan and started to go out with what you’d call the wrong crowd.”

I pulled at my hair, kept my lips sealed.

“They were rich and did a lot of cocaine. No needles, just blow. That made me feel better for a while, but the comedowns were a bitch. Everything spun out of control. The only thing which I could hang on to was pain, so I cut myself. It was worse than the drugs, because I couldn’t share it with anyone.”

I dug my nails into my scalp until it stung.

“The point of no return was when I passed out and hit my head on the edge of the bathtub. It was then that my parents found out and sent me to a shrink. To cut a long story short, he helped me get better and here I am. I stay away from people like you because I can’t go through that hell again.”

“People like me?”

He cast me a contemptuous glance. “Liars and cheaters,” he said. “Too high and mighty to care about what they leave behind.”

“You don’t, you have no idea,” I started.

“You came to me,” he drew a deep breath. “You came back to our house that winter and told us that you had a fiancée. You were in my room, in my bed, and you said you couldn’t hug me because it wouldn’t be right. And yet a few months before, you had been balls deep inside of me on that same bed.”

I was in the strange predicament of being upset, tearful and horny, all at the same time. Elio was next to me, in his tight jeans and soft sweater, with his tangled curls and swollen lips: I only wanted to hold him and hold him some more, until every horrible memory had passed from his body to mine.

“I was scared,” I murmured, “You were so--- if I had touched you, I would not have been able to let you go. And I had to: you were so young, and my family, they would have not believed you had consented. For them, I’d been a rapist who had taken advantage of a minor.”

“I wanted you, I wanted everything from you,” he said.

He wasn’t helping, or maybe he was.

“I made so many mistakes.”

 “You forgot that we were friends and you should have confided in me,” he replied. His lips were pursed into a pout and he was so much like my Elio that I wanted to cry.

“We can be friends again,” I said, instead. “I won’t ask for anything more.”

He studied me intently.

“Are you separated or just momentarily apart?”

“I’m divorced and on a sabbatical. I have nothing to go back to aside from a job I’m not so keen on.”

“And what is here, aside from Rudy?”

You are here and that’s all that matters to me, I wanted to say, but couldn’t.

“Peace and quiet, art, great food, and a bit of sleuthing, if you agree to help me,” I replied.

“You are serious about this Rudge affair then?”

“The poor woman is almost a hundred years old and she’s losing her memory. I only want to pay her a visit and see what’s going on.”

“And you need me because?”

“She’s a violinist, you are a pianist: you could pretend that you are an admirer who wants to chat about the good old days.”

“When she was performing exclusively for Il Duce,” Elio quipped.

“Yes, okay, I get it,” I exclaimed. “You hate her and Pound and you want their letters to be destroyed and who cares about their value.”

“Shut up,” he said, “I’ll come with you if you promise to be friends only, and to keep your distance.”

“Is this far enough?”  I indicated the gap between us.

“This is better,” he answered, moving into the armchair opposite me.

“But if you ever wish to get closer---”

“I won’t,” he cut in.

We’ll see about that, I thought.


	6. A Virginal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is afoot....
> 
> A bit of light entertainment after the darkness of the previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the feedback, you are amazing!!!!
> 
> A Virginal is the title of the poem quoted by Elio. Olga Rudge really did ask people to do that when they approached her.

The library occupied most of the second floor and could only be reached by climbing a secret staircase hidden behind a panel in the wall. The frescoed ceiling was a delight of its own, the work perhaps of Tiepolo or one of his disciples.

I could not bear to sit in the throne-like chair in carved wood usually occupied by Peter, so I contented myself with sitting on the more bashful upholstered bench by the window. I had opened the shutters and a pale light was leaking in, complementing the faded colours of the oriental rugs.

I had half-lied about knowing what dyspraxia was - I had only a vague idea – but I hadn’t wanted to force Elio into a scientific explanation of the disease that had wrecked his life.

Here I was, on a Monday morning, consulting a tome about mental health issues and marvelling at Elio’s will power in overcoming his troubles and playing for a major orchestra.

I gazed down at the canal and the view beyond it, the clusters of old buildings that had survived wars and the constant threat of the two contrasting elements, fire and water. There was unbending strength in that fragility, same as in Elio’s, but Venice was loved by the whole world and, I decided with a surge of sudden emotion, so should Elio.

The feeble winter sun peered out of the mist and I felt like going for a walk.

Once outside, I decided to head for Santa Croce and catch the _vaporetto_ at San Marcuola.  On the other side of the Rio stood Palazzo Vendramin Calergi, where Wagner had died and where a museum dedicated to him was in the works. Rudy had told me that it would take five years at least before its opening and I imagined visiting it with Elio. It didn’t seem fanciful at all, I realised. All through my marriage, I’d refused to make plans for the future and left Carole in charge while I functioned on auto-pilot. Yet I had all sorts of ideas when it came to Elio; I wished to see everything through his eyes.

My feet took me to the Trattoria Al Ponte, but naturally Mario wasn’t there since it was a working day. I needed to talk to someone, but I didn’t want to speak about architecture or art, which would have happened if I had sought out the few people I knew, which were passing acquaintances anyway.

Elio and I had agreed to meet the following day, but I thought it would be a good idea to case the joint, as a criminal would say.

I knew that Rio Fornace was not far from the church of Santa Maria della Salute, so that’s where I went, intending to ask directions once I got there.

It took me a while, but I found it in the end, and was surprised to discover that it was a humble three-storey house with a frontage the colour of terracotta and panes of frosted glass on the ground-floor windows and doors.

I was pondering my next move when a stooping elderly man with a face as wrinkled as Beckett’s came up to me.

“There’s no door-bell, in case you were wondering,” he said. “And yes, it is Pound’s _buen retiro_ , or rather it was.”

He had a strong American accent, so I replied to him in English. He was very pleased to meet a fellow countryman and he invited me in for the _aperitivo_. The vicarage was two doors down and his wife was visiting friends, so we’d be able to talk uninterrupted, he said. His name was Lewis Anderson and he was the Anglican minister of the English church.

His place was the least Venetian I’d yet seen: the walls were painted white, the furniture was modern and sparse and the armchairs and sofa covered in chintz.

“A dry martini is what we need,” he said, mixing the drinks with evident pleasure.

I had not had anything to eat since breakfast, but I could not refuse the offer.

“I assume that you are a fan of the late poet,” he said, once we were both comfortably sat and sipping our martinis.

“I’m Jewish,” I remarked, smiling.

He broke into peals of laughter, his face creasing and puckering like old parchment.

“Poor Olga had been trying her very best to make people forget about their involvement with fascism, but it’s hard when so many in Italy still have a soft spot for Mussolini.”

“That should make it easier, surely.”

He shook his head, “If Italians could agree that it was a shameful episode of their history they would try to forget it, but since some believe it was good, they will keep its memory alive.”

“Did you know him?”

“I met him once, just before he died. He had made a vote of silence, which he broke only to read his own poetry.”

“Do you think that it was a sort of atonement?”

“He spent over twelve years in a mental hospital, so that might be the reason.”

“I believed that was to save him from a charge of treason to his country.”

Anderson wasn’t convinced. “He wasn’t insane, but he wasn’t normal either.”

I thought of Elio and shivered at the realisation that, in a different era, he might have been certified insane and put away just because he was having a break-down.

“Normality is in the eye of the beholder,” I replied, “Like beauty.”

He must have seen that he’d upset me because he didn’t insist.

“In any case, his genius is undisputed and Venetians rewarded it by allowing him to be buried in San Michele.”

“A rare honour or so I have heard.”

“We are always at our most merciful after someone dies,” he argued.

I frowned, remembering Carole’s wrath after her miscarriage, and the insults she had thrown at me. That particular death had not made either of us more inclined to mercy.

“In fact, it’s not Pound I’m interested in,” I said, “A good friend of mine, a pianist, would like to meet Ms Rudge.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” he exclaimed, “She’s very sociable and doesn’t get out much anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if she left Venice soon. Same goes for me,” he smiled, “This is no city for old people.”

“Will you go back to the States?” I enquired, just before taking my leave.

He laughed heartily.

“Not a chance,” he replied, “You may not have been here for long, but I have spent most of my life in Italy and here is where I will, like the poet said, shuffle off my mortal coil.”

I told him that I understood what he meant, and I truly did.

 

We were supposed to meet in front of the Fenice at 11 that Tuesday morning and as luck had it, it was chilly but sunny and bright.

I arrived early armed with a thermos full of black coffee, and soon spotted Elio walking towards me: he was wearing a woollen hat and had a green scarf wrapped around his neck. He looked small and disgruntled: I smiled to myself, as I concluded that he still wasn’t a morning person.

“What are you laughing at?” he muttered when he reached me.

“Rise and shine,” I replied, offering him the thermos.

“We aren’t going camping,” he grumbled, but he unscrewed the cap and took a long sip all the same.

As we waited for the _vaporetto_ to Dorsoduro, I told him about my encounter of the previous day and he stared at me as though I had grown an extra head.

“What’s happened to you?” he said, “Drinking martinis with a vicar and lying to him to get information. This can’t be real.”

I sensed that he was intrigued and that, as long as I didn’t bore or annoy him, I was on the right path.

“I’ve never met a vicar socially, but he was very friendly.”

He snorted, “I’ve heard some stories about the Church,” he said.

“I’m far too old to be a choir boy,” I argued. “You, on the other hand---”

The _vaporetto_ had arrived and we walked on board.

“Do you realise that I’m the same age you were that summer?” he asked. The wind had made his eyes water, and the tip of his nose was red. I wanted to kiss him, but I offered him a pack of Kleenex instead.

“I was an idiot back then,” I said, as I gazed at the cupola of Santa Maria della Salute, which rose up from the Grand Canal like a meringue on a silver platter.

“Yes, you were,” he replied, but there was no animosity in his tone. “You better give me some more of that coffee: I’m fucking freezing.”

 

We got to 252 Calle Querini at a time which, I’d calculated, would be too early for lunch and too late for breakfast.

“What shall we say?” Elio murmured when I was about to knock at the door.

“The truth,” I replied, “You are a pianist who loves Vivaldi and who’s a fan of her work.”

“That’s not the truth,” he hissed, “I prefer Scarlatti to Vivaldi.”

“You’ll be fine,” I insisted, and I rapped loudly on the frosted glass.

 

Olga Rudge was tiny and birdlike, with close-cropped white hair and large brown eyes. For all her evident senility, she was rather lively and agile. The problem was – I had been told – her memory, which was increasingly failing. Like many old people, she retained a sharp recollection of the ancient past, while having trouble remembering what she’d had for lunch the day before.

She took to Elio right off the bat, gazing at me with admiration but not interested in anything I had to say. Judging by what happened later, she’d probably thought that I was the muscle and Elio the brain.

 

She opened the door and before we could introduce ourselves, she addressed Elio.

“Tell me a verse from one of his poems.”

I was about to step in with some excuse, when Elio, without the least hesitation, quoted; “ _I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness, for my surrounding air hath a new lightness_.”

Olga Rudge patted his arm. “Not one of my favourites, but it will do.”

She let us in and guided us towards a room which was part study and part drawing room.

“Move that pile of papers and sit down,” she said, in a commanding tone.

She still had not asked our names or what we were doing there.

“Now tell me why you chose that poem. You know what it’s about, don’t you?”

Elio nodded. He had removed his hat and his curls were the usual bewitching tangle.

“It’s about first love,” he replied. “And not accepting any compromise after you’ve pledged your heart, body and soul.”

My heart was in my throat and I had trouble breathing, but our hostess was unimpressed.

“That’s so much nonsense,” she argued, “Love is nothing but endless compromise. But you are too young to really understand. It will come to you, no doubt.” She finally wondered about our reason to be there. “You are not the painter by any chance? I was expecting one last week, but he didn’t turn up.”

“Was he going to do your portrait?” I asked.

She cackled like one of the witches in Macbeth. “Of this old relic, I shouldn’t think so! No, it was a _trompe-l'œil_ mural with arches and columns here on the ground floor.” She stared quite openly at my upper body. “You could help me move the crates. Jane said she would send someone, but that’s not happened either.”

Elio was vainly trying not to smile.

“How many crates are there?” I enquired.

“A dozen at least, but you are strong enough,” she replied.

“He will do it, won’t you Oliver?” he quipped, the little shit.

“That’s a lovely name,” she interjected, “It’s in one of my favourite novels. It was banned but I got a signed copy from the author. He was a tedious man but wrote marvellous books.”

Elio was biting his lips now and his eyes were shining.

“Oliver Mellors, the game-keeper and lover of Lady Chatterley,” he said.

Olga winked at me, “Pity that you are not an actor,” she sighed.

“Or a game-keeper,” Elio chimed in. “But at least he can help you move those crates.”

It was clear from her expression that she’d forgotten, but he was not going to let me get away with it. Well, two could play that game, I said to myself, as I removed my sweater. Underneath, I was wearing a skin-tight black t-shirt, and I caught him watching.

 


	7. Sound and Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio is a bit of a fire-cracker...

 

There were eleven crates in total and they were to be moved from the study – on whose walls the _trompe-l'œil_ mural was going to be painted – to the storage room at the end of the corridor.

I suggested they must be filled with books because of how heavy some of them were.

“Papers, my boy,” she replied, “They have to be inspected and catalogued, but I haven’t the heart for it.”

“You could hire somebody,” I said, “There would be queues all the way to Mestre, I bet.”

She cackled again, and I soon realised that it was her signature response, together with a tendency to dart from one topic to another, following a pattern of her own.

Elio had not even tried to help me: true to his words, he had watched me toil with a smirk on his lips and shimmering eyes.

After the fourth or fifth box, they had left me there and gone back into the drawing room. So much for me leading the way, I thought with some amusement.

Olga Rudge wasn’t the first person who had taken a look at me and concluded that brawn superseded brains; Elio had never subscribed to that; he had believed in me and I had betrayed that trust.

When I was done and rejoined them, I found them deep in conversation about a Vivaldi concerto.

“It’s the one in D minor,” she was saying and he, “By viola d’amore, lute and orchestra... the 540, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and Ezra decided to transcribe it for violin and piano, but he had to admit that he couldn’t. You have no idea how much that admission cost him, he was so – I wouldn’t say vain – but convinced that he could do anything he set his mind to.”

Elio was sitting at her piano, his body partially turned towards her. From a distance, I could tell that he was tense.

“I used to transcribe too, when I was younger,” he said.

“What do you mean younger, you are a child!” she exclaimed, smiling. “And what do you think of the final version, reworked by Münch?”

“It’s good,” he replied, the way he did when he didn’t want to express what he really thought. She didn’t believe him either.

“I can still play,” she said, “It exhausts me, but I can go lie down afterwards. It’s not as if I have anything else to do.”

She asked me to fetch her violin, which had been – in its case - on a table in the study.

In the meantime, Elio had been growing more and more uneasy.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “I haven’t played Vivaldi for a while.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t tire you further,” I interjected, “And it’s nearly lunch-time.”

“I never eat lunch,” she replied, gazing at her violin as though it were a sentient being. “But if you are hungry, I have salad and smoked salmon in the refrigerator.”

Elio looked at me but I couldn’t read his intentions: at first, he’d seemed anxious then resigned and now, after gazing at me, angry. It was the latter emotion which prevailed.

“No, I am fine,” he declared, “Do you have the score?”

She fished it out of a thick folder and after a minute or two they were playing.

I was far from a connoisseur, but I discerned his indecision at the start; soon his touch became more assured and after a while, I perceived that he’d made the piece his own and was veering away from the arrangement by Münch. Olga was clearly making a tremendous effort and I was glad when it was over. I helped her put the violin away and avoided looking at Elio.

“You are a marvellous pianist, my dear,” she enthused, as she relaxed in her comfortable armchair. “What is your name?”

I burst out laughing, because it was only then - after playing with him - that she’d bothered to ask. Elio told her and she shook her head. “How come I haven’t heard of you? I do keep an eye on these things and your name is easy to remember.”

“I am with the Fenice orchestra,” he replied.

She opened her mouth and something in his expression must have told her not to pry. Swiftly, she turned towards me and asked me whether I was a musician too.

“I wish,” I replied, “I am slightly better with words.”

“Oliver’s a writer,” Elio intervened. “He wrote a book on Heraclitus.”

Her gaze softened and shone with tears.

“Ezra would have had a quote for you, but I’m afraid I know very little about Greek philosophers.”

I assured her that I didn’t mind in the least, and she frowned at me.

“And I made you carry all those crates,” she said, “Why didn’t you refuse?”

Elio let out a squawky laughter.

“It was my pleasure to help you,” I replied, “Maybe in exchange you can tell me what you are planning to do with them?”

She didn’t hesitate. “They are for the Ezra Pound Foundation,” she replied, “I’m going to have them valued with the help of a friend of mine.”

“I am sure you’ve been warned to think very carefully before signing anything,” I said, smiling.

“Why would you say that?” she asked, her eyes narrow like those of a cat. “What’s going on?”

I was debating whether to tell her the truth when Elio butted in.

“He’s been reading too much Henry James,” he said, “And he's seeing dastardly plots everywhere. I’m sure your friend will never suggest of removing your boxes only to return them filled with newspapers; that only happens in novels and movies.”

She went pale. “That would be terrible,” she whispered.

“It would be,” I agreed, “But you could always demand a second opinion, if you wish. They are your papers, after all.”

I didn’t want to tire her further, so I gave her my phone number and insisted she got in touch whenever she felt like it.

We had just turned the corner into one of those narrow alleys that smelled of sewer when Elio attacked me.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” he hissed, pushing me against the nearest wall. It was covered with posters with the hammer & sickle of the Communist party; they were peeling away at the edges.

“Did what on purpose?” I had no idea what he meant.

It was starting to rain; a feeble drizzle which barely reached us.

“That,” he gritted out, jabbing me in the chest with his forefinger.

“I only did it to help her,” I replied.

“Always this fucking excuse,” he said, almost vibrating with rage. For a moment, I believed that he would spit in my face. Instead, he undid the top button of my coat and yanked down the collar of my sweater.

“You piece of shit,” he growled, and I was half-scared by then, fearful that he would punch me and be done with me. Instead, he ducked down and licked the hollow of my throat. I wanted to pull him closer, but I didn’t dare. His tongue was on my neck, nearly as aggressive as a hand would have been, and soon I felt the sting of teeth. He was biting me and muttering words, which I took to be insults. It hurt but what worried me was the heaviness in my balls and the impellent need to moan. Dimly, I realised that he’d stop if I’d made him aware of what was happening, and I refrained until I no longer could. When he dug his teeth into the flesh of my shoulder, I murmured the one word I shouldn’t have uttered: his name.

Immediately, he let me go, and wiped his lips and chin on the back of his hand, which was trembling. He stared at it with wild eyes.

“You did this to me,” he shouted, “I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

“Calm down,” I replied, displaying a sang-froid which I was miles from feeling. “Let’s find a _trattoria_ , sit down and have something to eat.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

I massaged my neck, which was surely going to bruise, the way it ached and throbbed. Stealthily, but not quickly enough so that I wouldn’t notice, he adjusted himself. I thought, what the hell, and looked down at the evident bulge in his pants.

“I can’t believe you,” he exclaimed, turning away in disgust.

I went after him and caught him by the shoulder. He whipped around like a bristling cat, but I knew that if I let him have the upper hand, my chances with him would disintegrate.

“Wait a minute,” I said, sternly, “We’re neither of us innocent, let’s be honest. I took off my sweater and you enjoyed the show.”

He grimaced and, again, I feared that he’d spit at me.

“And as soon as you had me alone, you were, well, you know what you did,” I went on, baring my throat with my free hand.

“You know why,” he threw the words in my face and sneered when I responded with blankness. “Don’t you dare--- This was my place, only mine,” he said, touching the hollow of his throat to show what he meant, “And that poem reminded me, and then you were showing off in your v-neck t-shirt--- I couldn’t--”

There were tears streaking his cheeks, mixing with the rain that was beginning to pelt down. I staunched them with my scarf, but it wasn’t enough, so I – at last – wrapped my arms around him and held him as he sobbed.

 

We found refuge inside the Trattoria Fornace, and ordered lentil soup and toasted bread with a jug of red _vino della casa_.

My neck was protected by my scarf and Elio’s eyes were red-rimmed but dry.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after the first sip of wine. “I shouldn’t have assaulted you.”

We had picked a table at the back and the few other customers weren’t paying attention to us.

The waiter brought us the steaming bowls of soup and plate laden with crostini.

Elio asked for grated Parmesan cheese and it was brought to us immediately.

“You didn’t,” I replied, looking him in the eye, “I only wish you wouldn’t cry. I can’t stand it when you cry.”

He blew on his spoonful of soup and waited a moment before bringing it to his mouth.

“It’s good you didn’t see me after you left, six years ago.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I know, I behaved like a coward, but you never said--- You seemed more or less okay with it, with everything.”

“I was seventeen, that’s why, you idiot,” he replied, kicking at my shins with one of his sturdy boots. “What did you want me to say: please, Oliver, could you let me suck you off because I’m desperate for you even though you don’t give a shit about me?”

He always did that: he made me upset, horny and a myriad other things at the same time.

“You never had a problem before,” I argued, while I wondered whether it would be sensible to jerk off inside the toilets of a _trattoria_.  

 “It was easier to speak when I was only lusting after you.”

In hindsight, I could not understand how I had managed to keep away from Elio when we’d been lying in bed together. After marrying Carole, with my libido reduced to intermittent and rare bursts, Elio’s memory had acquired the blurred contours of a dream; that final rejection has seemed painful but not impossible, but now I couldn’t figure out where I had found the strength to deny him and myself.

“You asked for a kiss and I said no,” I said, as if to my younger self, “Fucking imbecile.”

“It’s all behind us,” he replied, dunking the bread into the soup. “We can be friends now that the air’s been cleared.” A moment later, his mouth was full and he was squeezing his eyes shut because he’d scalded himself.

 “Yes,” I replied, “Friends, sure, I’d like that.”

How was that going to work, when he got hard after biting me and I got aroused just by listening to him talk about sex?


	8. Truth Will Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver unburdens himself and plans are made.
> 
> Thanks so much for the support, I will reply to all your comments later tonight.

 

The rain had stopped and the sky was the colour of slate.

Elio was less pale now that he had some food and wine in him but he seemed preoccupied.

“What are you going to do?” he asked me, and I gathered that he meant how I was going to spend my time.

“Rudy has suggested a few things,” I replied, “But I don’t want to depend too much on his kindness.”

His nose twitched and his mouth opened and shut: it was both eloquent and endearing.

“He’s not a friend like you,” I explained, “There’s never been anything between us nor will there ever be. I’m not sure he’s interested in humans that way; maybe he favours fruit, like you used to.”

He snorted, “You were the one who ate it.”

“Best thing I ever tasted.”

“I doubt it,” he replied, smiling. “Anyway, don’t change the subject.”

“Okay, right,” I cleared my throat and went on, “I was asked to help catalogue the antiques at Palazzo Grimani before they are sent to the National Archaeological Museum.”

“Papa would envy you,” he murmured.

“He would also be the perfect man for the job while I’m not up to it.”

“Don’t fish for compliments.”

“I’m only being honest,” I replied, “The Renaissance is not my forte.”

He had stopped and was staring at a derelict three-storey building with rows of gothic-style windows and dainty balconies.

“You should know about this,” he said, “It’s from this Palazzo that Henry James’s friend jumped to her death.”

I recalled having read about it without realising that Casa Semitecolo would be so close to Pound’s Hidden Nest.

“You always surprise me,” I remarked.

He had covered his lips with his scarf and was nibbling the wool; I felt a corresponding tingle in my neck where he’d bitten me. I had liked it and I wanted more, but that wasn’t what friends did to one another.

“When I first moved to Venice, I was not in a good frame of mind,” he said, “I hated everybody telling me how magical the city was, so I searched for gruesome, depressing facts about it.”

“You must have read Death in Venice,” I joked.

“Several times,” he answered, “But I bet you haven’t heard about Queen Alexandra of Greece who tried to commit suicide in her mansion on the Giudecca Island. She was obsessed with her estranged husband and had become anorexic.”

“I wish you wouldn’t think about death,” I said.

“I don’t,” he replied, “Not the way I used to, anyway.”

We had reached the Salute embankment and stood there, waiting for the _vaporetto_. Not for the first time, I yearned to be back on terra firma, so that we could be alone in a taxi or a private car.

“I’m always here if you need---”

“What, a shoulder to cry on?” he sneered.

I leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Or to bite, if that’s what you fancy.”

“And what do you fancy, Oliver?” he hissed back, voice filled with venom. He took advantage of my momentary silence to double down on his sarcastic repartee. “Of course, you won’t say. Leave them wanting more, isn’t that your strategy?”

“We can’t talk here,” I said.

“That’s done already,” he countered. “We’ve cleared the air, remember?”

People were starting to get on to the motorboat.

“Why don’t you come for dinner at my place?” I asked, “I’ll show you the library.”

“Is that your version of a butterfly collection?”

I laughed and he walked on board the _vaporetto_ with a definite strut.

He hadn’t said yes, but he hadn’t said no either.

 

It was a while before I saw him again.

That afternoon in the rain, and the maelstrom of emotions I had been prey to, must have played havoc with my health: a cold turned into a sore throat, which degenerated into bronchitis and  a very high temperature. I was bedridden for a week, surviving on broths and lemon tea. Once or twice, I had thought of contacting Elio at the _pensione_ , but I didn’t want to appear needy. Perhaps, I was also afraid that he might not come to see me; that he’d decided that I wasn’t worth the effort after all. Besides, I was contagious, and the last thing I wanted was to infect him and cause him to be sick because of me.

Rose and Peter were caring and kind: he regularly brought me books and she took care of the food and housekeeping, sharing the services of their _domestica_ , a grey-haired woman named Emilia.

I preferred listening to the radio to reading, since my eyes would tire and I would get nauseous because of it. Once, I believed I heard the Vivaldi piece Elio and Olga had played, but the pianist wasn’t as talented as Elio. That enraged me briefly, with the impotent, heart-thumping wrath of sickness: I wanted him to be the best version of himself, fulfilling all the promises of his first youth. I will tell him, I kept repeating to myself, I will make him understand, I will do anything in my power. That night I tossed and turned, and I woke up at six in the morning convinced that I was on fire. I fell asleep two hours later and awoke again in the afternoon, feeling weak but less delirious.

 

It was ten days after that meeting with Elio that I was finally fever-free. It was a Saturday and I knew that he wouldn’t be working on the Sunday.

It was two in the afternoon and I was about to telephone the Fenice et des Artistes, when the doorbell rang.

“I came back last night but Rose told me you were resting,” Rudy said, after I let him in. He had hugged me and was gazing at me, assessing me. “You lost a lot of weight. It’s not like you to get sick, or am I mistaken?”

“I hadn’t had bronchitis since I was twelve,” I replied.

We sat down on the couch and he observed me intently for a few moments. The bruises Elio had made were gone, but I touched my throat all the same, as though their ghosts were still there.

“I went to see Olga Rudge,” I said, to break the silence.

“Well done,” he exclaimed, “Did you take that musician with you?”

I had forgotten that I had mentioned that to him; caught by surprised, I blushed.

“Yes, yes, we went together--- ten days ago.”

“How did it go?”

I gave him a resume of what had happened chez Rudge and at the end of it, looking stunned, he said, “I can’t believe that she played her violin. I thought she couldn’t lift it, let alone play it! Your friend must be really convincing.”

“It was entirely her doing,” I replied, “They were discussing a concerto and he wasn’t keen on the transcription. He didn’t say as much, but it was obvious, and she was curious to find out what he’d do with it. At the start, he followed the score, but then he improvised, at least that was my impression.”

I had become animated as I spoke of Elio, and Rudy had noticed it.

“How long have you known him?”

“I stayed with his family one summer, almost seven years ago.”

The silence that followed was as dense as the fog over the lagoon.

“Something happened while you were there, didn’t it?”

I was tired to hide from the truth and because I was recovering, I wasn’t as successful at dissimulation. He saw what was coming and asked me for a drink. I served him – and myself – two fingers of grappa.

“This should kill the remains of your germs,” he joked, and I agreed, laughing.

He was the sort of man who would never be in the situation I found myself in, of that I was certain. He’d shrink from such close contact with another being and would not let any passion burn too bright.

“It was where exactly?” he asked, and I told him.

“Northern Italy in 1983,” he said, nodding, “And you were a summer guest, sleeping next door, I imagine.”

I recounted everything - well, _almost_ everything - from the first day when I had fallen asleep skipping dinner, to the last embrace at the train station.

“He must be very mature for his age,” he commented. “When I was seventeen, I thought every person over nineteen was a bore and I avoided them like the plague.”

“He couldn’t do that since we were sharing a bathroom,” I replied, relieved that he wasn’t calling me a pervert.

“Was it your first time with a boy?”

I shook my head, “But I had treated the others like experiments, like you do when you are trying things out.”

“You didn’t think you’d fall in love.”

I desperately wanted a cigarette, but my lungs and throat couldn’t take it.

“And you went back to Carole as soon as you set foot in the States,” he continued.

“He was still in high school,” I said, “I was sure he’d forget me in no time.”

Rudy snorted. “A boy who can play Bach on piano and guitar and who seduces an older man won’t be the forgetting type.”

“He hates me,” I murmured. “He hasn’t forgiven me for not having told him about Carole sooner, among other things.”

I briefly related my Christmas trip to Italy and my icy behaviour towards Elio.

“And now he’s here and you’d like a second chance,” he stated.

Hearing it said out loud, I acknowledged the truth of it, completely and absolutely.

“He doesn’t want me anymore,” I said, and told Rudy about Elio’s struggle with his mental health problems and the inability live up to the high standards he’d set himself.

He didn’t contradict me, didn’t try to make me feel better: he probably thought that I deserved to have lost Elio, and he was surely right.

“You need a plan, an excuse to be with him,” he said, instead, as though he’d been thinking of this all along. “And I have a great idea to achieve that result.”

“It won’t get us into trouble or land us in prison, I hope.”

His eyebrows rose. “Why would you say that? Anyway, this is what I have in mind.”

In New York, he said, he had been asked to organise a fun-raiser and the majority of the Save Venice board had chosen the Guggenheim as the preferred venue.

Since Olga Rudge was friends with the museum’s director and with his wife, Rudy had thought that they could organise a Vivaldi concert. The composer had been born in Venice, so that was a perfect way to celebrate the city they were raising money for.

“Elio could play the piano,” he said. “He would have to rehearse with the rest of the orchestra and you could be there to... supervise.” He winked at me.

“He’s working at the Fenice, I told you that,” I argued.

“What time of the year is it?” he asked, clearly amused.

“February, why, oh I see, it’s almost Carnival time.”

“Yes, and La Fenice has a dedicated Carnival programme which does not include their regular orchestra. Your man will be free as a bird.”

“Not really, since he teaches at the Conservatory too.”

He whistled. “He’s one busy bee, this wunderkind. Even better, rehearsals will be in the afternoons and evenings.”

A thought suddenly came to me, “Why did you choose the Guggenheim; was it to keep an eye on Jane Ryland? I hope you don’t expect me to do that for you.”

He grimaced theatrically. “How absurd,” he said, “You’ll talk to people, get to know them, I imagine. If you want to live in Venice, you’ll have to learn the ropes.”

“As long as I don’t get strangled with one of them,” I said.

“Depends on who’s doing the strangling,” he quipped, and on that note he departed.

 

Before dialling the _pensione_ ’s number, I drank another finger of grappa.

I was waiting for Vendetta’s voice but it was a man who answered the phone.

“I’d like to speak to Elio Perlman.”

“Oliver,” his voice – which I had not recognised – sounded worried. “I thought you’d gone away.”

“I was in bed with bronchitis,” I replied, “Not a very attractive partner.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have brought you Vendetta’s trademark _brodo di pollo_.”

“I’m very ugly when I am sick. Why are you answering the hotel’s phone?”

“I was next to it when it rang,” he replied, “Are you feeling better now?”

I was going to say yes, that I was fine, but I coughed instead.

“Would you bring some of that broth to me tomorrow?” I rasped.

“Maybe I will send Vendetta,” he joked. “Tell me your address.”

I gave it to him and asked him at what time I should expect him.

“I’ll see you at midday,” he said.


	9. In Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio and Oliver talk of the past and a proposal is made...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your support. It means more than I can express. Hugs and kisses and more hugs!

I slept until late because of a dream that had shaken me.

I had been making love with Elio, of that I was sure despite being unable to see his face and body. It had been his smell, the texture of his skin and, most arousing of all, the hardness of his length inside me.

Back then, when I’d first considered why I was attracted to him, I told myself that Elio was not unlike a girl and that for such a slender, smooth-skinned adolescent, his sex must have been a negligible affair, like those seen on Ancient Roman statuary. To my surprise, it had been rather the opposite: not as thick as mine, but long and hefty; a grown man’s cock that I’d truly _feel_ if I’d allowed it into me.

And there had come the second surprise: I had found myself wanting it, craving it, and on our second night together, I had pretended to _allow_ him to be the top, when it was I who had been closer to begging.

“Are you sure?” he’d whispered against my throat.

“It’s only fair,” I’d replied, with forced nonchalance.

“I won’t if you are not okay with it,” he’d insisted, and I had kissed him to show him that I meant it.

Even discounting Elio’s inexperience and lack of proper lubricant – we’d run out of Vaseline that morning and had forgotten to replace it – it had been a revelation: I’d loved the sense of fullness, but more than that the fact that I was succumbing to something more powerful than myself and that I could simply give way to it.   

The dream had been a wet one, drenched to be precise, and the intensity and strength of my release had startled me, so it took me a while to go back to sleep.

 

Emilia had brought down a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, toasted bread and a jar of strawberry conserve. She’d enquired about lunch and I thanked her but told her that a guest was coming over and that he’d bring food. She gave me one of her shrewd looks and nodded; she probably thought I meant Rudy, whom she knew and liked. I wondered if she knew more about Rudy than I did and concluded that it was probably the case.

After breakfast and a shower, I wondered about my clothes: I didn’t want to be too _déshabillé_ in case Elio thought I was teasing him, so I opted for jogging pants and a pyjama jacket which I buttoned up so that only my neck was visible. I had shaved the previous day and decided to leave the scruff: it would suggest that I was too sick to bother and that I wasn’t trying too hard, which of course I was.

I contemplated my face in the bathroom mirror and concluded that it would do, despite the dark smudges under my eyes, the swelling around my nostrils and my chapped lips.

 

It was midday on the dot when the doorbell rang. Elio was carrying a large canvas bag inside which was a plastic tub filled with chicken broth.

“We should decant it into a stock pot,” he said, “Where is the kitchen?”

I showed him where to go and for the next ten minutes or so we were busy doing what was needed, trying not to spill any of the liquid.

When the fire was on under the biggest pot I could find, Elio said hello and squeezed my arm. We went back to the drawing room and he briefly admired the marble floors and the frescoed ceiling.

I explained about the Lamberts nearly being fined for restoring their palazzo without asking for a permit, and his face grew wary.

“You shouldn’t strain your voice,” he said, and, “You have lost so much weight!”

“I told you that I’m ugly when I am sick,” I replied.

He looked away and picked at the sleeve of his sweater; his scars were underneath that spot, and I wondered whether he was ever tempted to cut himself again. I recoiled from that thought, aware that sooner or later it would resurface and I’d have to come to grips with it.

“I thought you’d had enough of Venice and had gone somewhere warmer, like Naples or Sicily,” he said.

I edged closer to him, without touching him. “I’m not going anywhere and if I had to, for whatever reason, I would come and tell you in person.”

He chuckled, “You don’t have to sound so solemn,” he replied. He was trying to make light of the situation, but I could tell that he’d believed that I had left.

Fear of abandonment was one of the causes of anxiety and that had been the trigger to his mental health issues.

“I mean it,” I insisted, my gaze fixed on his, “I will not repeat the same mistakes,” and then, to lighten up the mood, “I’m sure I will make a bunch of fresh ones, but that’s the way I am: a blundering idiot.”

I coughed – this time for real – and he went to fetch me a glass of water. My coughing spells were no longer frequent, but when they happened they lasted a while. By the end of it, Elio, who had fidgeted and gone to squeeze some lemon into my water, was more upset than me.

“You should have said,” he grumbled, “I’d have come sooner.”

“It’s gone now,” I rasped, “I’ll be as good as new in no time.”

My neck was flushed and covered in sweat.

“You should undo your jacket,” he said, and since I hesitated, he did it for me. I stood still and noticed that he was careful that his fingers would not brush against my skin. That precaution told me that he wanted to or he wouldn’t have cared one way or the other.

I thanked him and rubbed my throat with a fresh Kleenex. He stared at the motion of my hand, like a cat mesmerised by a mouse. When he caught himself doing it, his eyes went blank.

“The soup should be ready,” he said, and strode towards the kitchen.

 

After lunch, fortified by food and wine, I proposed to show Elio the library, but he was worried the dust would make me ill again.

“There is no dust,” I replied, smiling. “It’s not the House of Usher, you know?”

“I should hope so,” he said, “Although it might well collapse one day.”

“And we’ll live under water, like the people of Atlantis.”

“That didn’t end too well either,” he argued, returning my smile. He wound and unwound a curl around his forefinger and it was my turn to be entranced.

“Do you really mean to stay here for a while?” he asked. The church-bells of Santa Maria dei Servi rang the half-hour and I realised I had gotten so used to them I hardly noticed their constant marking of time.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I said, truthfully.

“What about a Caribbean Island, they must be wonderful this time of year.”

“It would get boring after a while.”

I fell into that trap because I had been distracted by his hair-twirling.

“Not if you were on your honeymoon,” he said, watching me with cold eyes.

The back of my neck prickled with perspiration.

“We went to Los Angeles because she has family over there,” I explained.

“That’s nice,” he commented, “And anywhere is good for a sex holiday.”

It hadn’t been much of one, what with visiting Carole’s cousins, helping them with the barbecues, and old friends and relatives inviting us over for interminable dinners by the pool.

“Is that something you want to talk about? Because I’d have thought---”

“What, that I’d go back to my hotel and open a vein?”

My heart was in my mouth. “What the hell,” I snapped. I was seeing black spots and shivering.

I closed my eyes and slumped back into the couch. I wished I was alone in bed dreaming of Elio rather than here with him, since I seemed to be hurting him just by being present. A moment later, his head was on my shoulder and he was holding my hand in his.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured. “I don’t think about the past, I don’t, but sometimes it pops out of nowhere.”

I turned round so that my chin was caressed by his hair.

“It wasn’t a happy marriage,” I said, “I gave it my best shot, but it was doomed from the start. I wasn’t being true to myself or to her, so it was only a matter of when.”

“You didn’t have kids?”

I told him about the miscarriage. “You would still be together otherwise.”

“Maybe, but not for much longer,” I replied, recalling how indifferent I had been to Carole’s naked body, while I was stirred by the sight of Elio playing with his curls.

He was crying softly, letting the tears roll into his mouth and down his neck.

“I missed you so badly when you left,” he sniffled. “And you said you missed me too, every time we spoke on the phone. But when you came back you had changed and I thought it was because you didn’t want me anymore. I figured that you got bored with me, once you’d gone back to being with people your age.”

I moved so that I could kiss his hair: it smelled of shampoo and fog.

“You could never bore me, not if we lived alone on a desert island for the rest of our lives,” I whispered.

“Maybe you’d bore me,” he quipped. It was fine; I could take that, as long as he stopped crying.

“I’m sure I would.”

We stayed like that until the church-bells chimed again. Outside it was already getting dark, but I did not want to move.

“No, I don’t think you would,” he said, sleepily. “I only said it to annoy you.”

“Of course you did.”

He squeezed my hand and the last thing I remember was a wayward curl tickling my nose every time Elio exhaled.

 

I was awakened by the numbness in my arm. I tried to remove it from underneath Elio without waking him; he muttered and placed his head on my chest. It was maybe the drumming of my heart that woke him up and soon he was sitting straight and wiping his eyes and lips with his hands.

“I should go,” he said, making sure once again that he wasn’t touching me.

I wanted him to stay, but didn’t want to pry: what if he had other engagements, maybe even a date with somebody?

“If you have to,” I replied, “I don’t want to keep you from your other friends.”

He clicked his tongue. “I have to prepare my lesson for tomorrow, but I guess I could stay a little longer.”

“You could do it here,” I suggested. “The library is stocked with all kinds of books and there is a piano in the salottino next to it. The Lamberts are not here anyway.”

“When the cat’s away,” he joked. “And thanks but I prefer to have my stuff so that I can write on it. We could have tea with lemon, and I could prepare it for us.”

I gladly accepted his offer, pondering how to tell him about Rudy’s proposal.

 

“Who is this man and why is he interfering with my life?”

Clearly, I had not chosen the right way.

“I told you about Rudy and his involvement with Save Venice,” I replied, as calmly as I could. “Is that true that you won’t be working at the Fenice during Carnival?”

“I have a second job, as you very well know.”

“I'll understand if you don’t want to bother---”

“No, you don’t! I haven’t performed as a concert pianist since I was eighteen. They should hire someone good, considering the importance of the event.”

“You are good, you are more than good.”

He stared daggers at me.

“How do you fucking know, hmm? You heard me play two times and one of them I was with an orchestra and you were listening to the singers and not paying any attention to me. Not that you would have known any better had you been listening.”

“Olga thought you were amazing.”

“She’s too rusty to tell.”

“You could think about it.”

“Why do you care so much? If that’s because you feel guilty, please don’t bother.”

“The Guggenheim is a prestigious venue---”

“I know what it is, thanks very much, and,” his eyes went wide, “What the hell, Oliver! It’s not that business of the stolen papers again, is it? You are not a detective. For starters, you are a giant and everybody notices you.”

“I’m not going to follow people around Venice,” I snorted a laugh. “We’ll get to know the Rylands, find out what they are like.”

“ _We_ , what do you mean, we? I thought I was playing the piano at a benefit concert.”

“Yes, you will be doing that, but since I’ll be helping with the organisation, I thought you might accompany me; to pick the best room for the acoustics, I mean.”

He hid his face in his hands.

“You will get us into trouble,” he sighed.

“So you are not interested.”

Elio looked at me for a long moment.

“Here comes trouble,” he said, with a lopsided grin.


	10. Last Duchess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver is a bit of an ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serpieri is the last name of the main character of Senso by Visconti (set and shot in Venice).
> 
> Cole Porter's song 'You are the top' is a masterpiece of innuendo, with the immortal refrain "Baby, if I'm the bottom, you are the top"
> 
> Bellini is a cocktail made with prosecco and white peaches.
> 
> Thanks once again for your amazing comments: keep them coming!!!!!

 

I had informed Rudy of Elio’s acceptance and with his usual efficiency he’d set the wheels in motion. Aside from Vivaldi, the committee had decided that Monteverdi should be on the programme since he’d been Master of Chapel as St. Mark. Elio loved the composer’s madrigals and was well acquainted with them, so he greeted the suggestion with enthusiasm.

Save Venice had decided to publicise the event – which was rather last minute for their standards – by holding a cocktail party at Ca’ Rezzonico. It was held on the Thursday after my Sunday with Elio, and by then I was fully cured and in perfect shape. I telephoned Elio to invite him and when he demurred, I insisted that he had to be there, since all the other performers would be present. He was already on temporary leave from la Fenice and thus had no viable excuse. It wasn’t a black tie event but I told him to wear a suit all the same.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” I said.

“You don’t have to,” he replied.

I didn’t want to insist, but at the same time I wasn’t sure that it wasn’t what he wished for.

“I’d love to.”

“I’ll be outside the iron gates at seven,” he said.

“Are you ashamed of being seen with me?”

He made a strange noise. “It’s just that---” he hesitated, “They will start talking and then when they stop seeing you they will gossip about that too.”

I had no intention of stopping, but it was a discussion to save for another day.

“Okay, see you then,” I said, “But if it rains, please stay inside.”

“I own that modern contraption called an umbrella.”

“Smart ass.”

He laughed and rang off.

 

It had rained all day but it had miraculously stopped around half six.

The Lamberts – who were also going – had asked me to share their water taxi, but I had told them that I was meeting someone.

“Is that the boy with the curly hair?” Rose had enquired and before I could reply, she’d shrugged, “Emilia saw him last Sunday and she’s a bit of a gossip.”

I knew that Rose was the curious one, but naturally I didn’t say it.

“Yes, he’s a pianist and he’s gonna play at the benefit concert,” I replied.

“I bet Jane will give him the third degree,” she said, “Better be prepared for the worst.”

I thanked her for the warning and headed out. While I walked towards San Marcuola, I ruminated on her words and decided that it would be best not to mention to Jane that we had met Olga Rudge.

 

Elio was wearing a black coat over an emerald green suit and he looked resplendent.

We stared at each other, but made no comments aside from commonplace greetings. I had put on an old charcoal suit with a cornflower blue shirt that matched the colour of my eyes. Neither of us wore a tie and I’d left my top button undone.

“I’ve started preparing the Vivaldi,” he said, “I’m more at ease with the Monteverdi and I’m looking forward to meeting the singer.”

They were starting rehearsals the following day at the Malibran Theatre.

“I’d like to be there, if you don’t mind.”

Elio smiled. “Like that wasn’t your idea from the start,” he replied.

I couldn’t deny it. “I have to make sure everything is running smoothly,” I said, “Part of my job.”

“Oh, so now you have a job,” he joked.

“I’m your agent.”

“You’ll expect a commission, I suppose.”

“Not unless the payment is---”

“If you say ‘in nature’, I will throw you into the canal.”

I made a show to appear mortally offended.

“I was going to say unless the payment is your success. I only want everybody to notice your talent.”

“You’re vastly overestimating it and me,” he said, but I saw that he was pleased.

 

The soirée was held on the first floor’s Ballroom, with the precious Brustolon furnishings in ebony and boxwood safely cordoned off.

The bar counter had been set up under one of the enormous wooden chandeliers and the atmosphere was that of a fairytale.

After we checked in our coats, we were immediately greeted by Rudy who was accompanied by a middle aged man with shoulder-length greying hair, the painter and sculptor Ludovico de Luigi.

“I was hoping to convince someone to get undressed so that I could paint them,” he announced.

“Did you bring a canvas in here?” I asked.

“I mean paint them, literally,” he replied as he sized me up. “Are you game? There’d be loads to work with.”

 Elio’s eyes were sparkling. “What would you draw?”

“A horse, perhaps,” the artist replied, making me turn around and looking at my back and ass. “What do you think?”

“Not a bad idea,” Elio replied.

Before I could protest, Rudy intervened, reminding de Luigi that he was still under caution after his previous stunt - that also involved a horse and a naked member of Parliament.

Elio was thrilled to find out that de Luigi had been responsible for that.

“It’s such an honour,” he enthused, shaking the man’s hand.

“I have a great idea about a cage filled with rats suspended over Piazza San Marco.”

That brought back the memory of the Nutella-filled Bocaraton. “Make sure Signor Donadon doesn’t catch them first,” I said.

He laughed and wandered off in the direction of a tall woman in a top hat.

“Elio, we meet at last,” said Rudy, introducing himself.

“And I already owe you,” Elio replied. “For the concert, I mean.”

“Don’t mention it. Oliver is your man,” he said, grinning, and then he re-joined the artist and his new companion.

“Let’s get something to drink,” I suggested, seeing that Elio was embarrassed by Rudy’s comment.

 

“I bet that’s your favourite cocktail,” I said, handing Elio his Bellini.

He rolled his eyes. “Peaches are so Eighties,” he replied, “Like those ridiculous shorts you used to wear.”

“They were fine, maybe a bit on the skimpy side.”

“The whole world could see your junk,” he replied, sipping his drink.

“I have news for you, Signor Perlman,” I said, “Your trunks were not much better. I could always tell when you were, you know, and if I could---”

He grimaced, “Adolescence is horrid. I’m so glad to be over it.”

“And I am glad that I was there to witness and share it, at least for a while.”

There was a band playing songs by Cole Porter – one of the many celebrities who had resided at Ca’ Rezzonico before it became a museum. Some guests were dancing but naturally I could not do the same with Elio, even if he’d accepted to.

We were tapping our feet to the notes of ‘You Are the Top’, when a short, plump woman sailed towards us, accompanied by a younger, slimmer one.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the former said, looking at me with her piercing brown eyes, “Jane Ryland.”

I put on my poker face and smiled, introducing myself, while Elio did the same.

The other woman was Adriana Serpieri, the soprano who was going to sing the madrigals. Somehow, Jane Ryland had managed to dispatch Elio and Adriana to the Harpsichord Room on the second floor and to take me to the Browning mezzanine.

“It is here that Browning died,” she said, as we looked at the paintings.

I had to admit that I wasn’t an expert on the poet.

“ _There she stands, as if alive_ ,” she quoted. “My Last Duchess, surely you know that one.”

I nodded. She had a thin-lipped smile which disappeared into her large pale face. Her cheeks reminded me of dough and her aquiline nose stood out like a scarecrow on a snowy hill.

“What struck me, when I was a kid, was that the duchess had been killed for being too polite. She smiled too much, the poet wrote.”

“As jealous as Othello,” I remarked.

“Women were only chattels back then,” she said, with the same frigid smile, “We are very lucky to live in different, more enlightened times.”

I had no idea what she was driving at, but I agreed with her.

“Now we do what we like,” she went on, “We don’t need a man to swoop in and save us.”

“Very often it’s the other way round,” I argued.

She fingered the jet beads of her necklace and smirked.

“Olga Rudge told me about your visit,” she said, “Your friend made a great impression.”

“She played with him,” I replied, “It was amazing.”

“She tires easily, poor darling.”

It was evident that she meant to convey some other message, but didn’t want to be explicit about it. I waited, while I admired the altarpiece by Tintoretto.

“I’m sure you’ll understand if she won’t call you again,” she said, “Her memory is not what it was and she forgets things and people.”

Her eyes, when I turned to look at her, were coldly assessing me.

“You just said that she was impressed by Elio.”

“I wonder how he and Adriana are getting on?” she exclaimed, guiding me towards the staircase. “And Philip must be looking for me. That’s my husband, by the way.”

On our way down, she was waylaid by a couple of acquaintances and I was free to return to Elio.

 

I found him deep in conversation with the singer, who was listening raptly and laughing at something he’d said.

Suddenly, I felt like the Duke of the Browning poem and wished all smiles to stop. That was insane, so I went to the bar and asked for another Bellini.

I took my drink to second floor balcony, so that I could smoke a cigarette.

The band was playing ‘Night and Day’ and I was humming along when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Why didn’t you join us?” he asked, “Adriana is really nice.”

“I didn’t want to intrude,” I replied, “You seemed like you were having fun.”

He stole my cigarette and I lit another one.

“What happened to you and Jane Ryland?”

I related the strange conversation in the Browning Mezzanine. At the end of it, he let out a low whistle.

“She was warning you,” he said. “Stay away from Olga Rudge or else.”

“Mind your own business or end up like the Last Duchess.”

We shared smiles.

He took a long sip of my cocktail and gazed at me from beneath his long lashes.

“Were you jealous of Adriana?” he asked.

“A little,” I lied, “But I am glad you are having fun.”

“I met a violinist too,” he went on, “He seemed alright.”

I was invaded by a sense of utter impotence: I was too old, too used up for Elio; I didn’t play an instrument or understand music, and I had no reason to engage his attention other than the memory of a past that he wanted to forget.

“What is it?” he enquired.

“Nothing,” I threw the cigarette butt into the empty glass. “I’ll go look for the Lamberts. I think I saw them dancing before.”

I turned away from him and left him there.

 

The rest of the evening went by quickly: I was introduced to the crème de la crème of Venice, while Elio chatted and danced with the musicians he’d be performing with. He had tried to involve me in their conversations, but I had felt ill at ease. I was also drinking steadily and by the end of the night I was more than tipsy.

The Lamberts offered to take me home but I replied that I needed the fresh air.

“We could drop Elio off,” they said, but when I searched for him he was still with Adriana and the others, so I didn’t bother him.

I was walking along San Barnaba, when I heard someone running after me.

“Oliver, stop!”

Elio came up to me and slapped me on the chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Too many cocktails,” I replied.

“You left me there and didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He slapped me again.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Obviously, it wasn’t a compliment. I was feeling a bit dizzy, so I leaned against a wall.

“You can’t walk all the way home in this condition,” he said, “Come on, Rose said she was waiting for us.”

“You’re coming too?”

“Isn’t what a friend would do, make sure you won’t end up in the canal when you are shitfaced?”

“You said you wanted to throw me in the canal.”

He took me by the hand and guided me back towards Ca’ Rezzonico’s embankment.

“The jury’s still out on that one,” he growled.  

  


	11. Nighthawks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys talk and talk and yet...
> 
> From Elio's POV

 

In life there are few things worse than losing something rare and sublime before having grasped its full value and importance.

Oliver had been with me for a very short time and I had spent most of it gazing at him from a distance and avoiding him.

The peach incident had been a revelation: while the majority of people would have either laughed at me or been disgusted, he’d understood, but more than that: he’d shown me that his sensuality travelled along similar twisted avenues. He wasn’t only – like I’d believed until then – a jovial, carefree and impossibly handsome academic; he was also a passionate and vulnerable lover, whose desires and emotions were attuned to mine to a strangely unsettling degree.

This had been a troubling discovery, but I had managed to keep it hidden from myself until Oliver came back and confessed that he was engaged to be married.

In that moment, the pain had been so unbearable that it had numbed my response: Oliver had never felt the same; he’d not been seduced by the synchronicity of our bodies; he’d only been waiting for summer to be over in order to return to his real life.

I had been a parenthesis, a pastime, a passing fancy.

 

After years of mindless sex, affectionate liaisons, drugs, and other terrible consequences I did not want to dwell upon, I had reached a plateau.

It wasn’t a place rife with adventure and excitement, but it was safe and pleasant, in its congealed, unruffled way. I lived inside my own snow-globe, which only I could shake up if I wanted to.

I had forgotten Oliver; not his name or his face, but the sense and quality of his presence. I could not remember the sound of his voice because it had taken almost everything I had to be rid of it, of him.

Did I hate him? Maybe I had done, as I smashed the keys of my piano and cried and swore that it was his fault if I couldn’t play again. My unresponsive fingers hated him and so did my slashed skin, but I wasn’t sure about my heart.

 

Venice was dangerous: I knew it as soon as I accepted the offer to play for La Fenice’s orchestra. Working for one of the most famous opera houses in the world, it would be harder to retain my anonymity. I had been mostly teaching and occasionally playing at private functions; never at major events and always on guitar rather than piano.

The last thing I’d have imagined – had my mind wandered that far – would be to meet Oliver in Venice. He emerged from the mist, like some majestic apparition.

And from that instant, my body was no longer fully my own.

 

“ _You’re a rose, you’re Inferno’s Dante_ ,” he was singing, or trying to. “I know it’s for the rhyme, but shouldn’t it be ‘Dante’s Inferno’?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, as I forced him to sit on the chair by the kitchen table.

“It wouldn’t very flattering to compare one’s lover to hell.”

He giggled and muttered something unintelligible.

“Why did you get so drunk? I have never seen you like that.”

“Not drunk,” he remonstrated. “I can speak and I can walk, see?”

He stood up and staggered towards the drawing room. He stopped dead and wailed: “Going to be sick!” The bathroom was too far, so he threw up in the kitchen sink. It went on for a while and in the end, his face was greenish and sweaty. I made us a pot of coffee and we sat in darkness with only the intermittent lights of the city seeping through the windows.

“I’ll go,” I said, after our second round of hot drinks.

“It’s too late,” he replied, in a low and raspy voice. “I have a spare room and Emilia always changes the sheets, just in case.”

“In what case?” I asked. I hadn’t meant it to sound harsh, but it did.

“Guests coming to visit, I suppose,” he replied. “There have been none, but she hasn’t lost hope.”

“She knows you better than I do.”

He sighed and raked his fingers through his hair.

“I’m in no condition to argue,” he murmured. “Please stay; it’s freezing cold and there are no water taxis at this hour. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

It was unclear what he intended to discuss, but I agreed that it wasn’t the right time. I hardly cared about the furnishings or the softness of the mattress: after peeing and brushing my teeth, I quickly undressed, slipped between the sheets and fell asleep.

 

I woke up suddenly, sensing someone’s eyes on me.

“What the---” I muttered, gazing at Oliver, who was sitting at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry, just go back to sleep,” he whispered. “It’s early still.” He stood up and made for the door. I was wide awake and getting angrier by the second.

“Come back here,” I hissed. “You were spying on me while I was sleeping.”

“I wasn’t spying; I only wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

I pulled the covers up to my chin.

“I ruined your evening,” he replied.

His eyes had violet smudges under them.

“I wasn’t the one who threw up,” I bit back, but relented when I saw his pinched expression. “It was a great party and I had lots of fun. I wouldn’t have had the opportunity if it hadn’t been for you.”

“Usually I can hold my drink.”

“You’re getting older,” I said, smiling.

He was wearing a black robe of a satiny material and even though it wasn’t loose, I could tell that underneath it he was naked. I wore a t-shirt and boxers and two layers of bedcovers, but I still didn’t feel safe in his presence. This was no plateau: there was a definite tendency towards the vertical. He was looking down at his hands, which were resting on his thighs, and the silence stretched between us, dense with meaning.

“I’m gonna let you rest,” he said, but I knew that I wasn’t going to.

“I’m thirsty,” I replied, and he went to fetch me some orange juice.

While he was gone, I put on a plaid dressing gown which couldn’t belong to Oliver, since it fitted me rather well. It was comfortable and warm, and it reached down to my ankles, leaving no skin on display. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I went to the kitchen. Oliver had washed the coffee mugs from the previous night and was drinking hot water with slices of lemon. On the table was a jug of fresh orange juice.

The clock above the refrigerator told me that it was half past seven. Again, the church bells pealed in the distance.

I yawned and scratched the back of my neck.

“I’m not that good a friend,” he said, drawing circles on the surface of the table.

“Rudy seems to think otherwise,” I replied. I tasted the juice and found that I was thirstier than I’d realised, so I drained the entire glass in one go. He served me a second one and filled it to the brim.

He plucked a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his robe and offered me one. I shook my head and he lit one for himself.

“I’m happy for you,” he said, in a forced way. “I want your talent to be recognised.”

The old resentment made its way up, from my bowels to my throat.

“It’s not about what you want,” I gritted out, “It’s my decision and no one else’s. I didn’t let my parents interfere, so---”

“---so why would you let me? I know, and I didn’t mean to be like---”

“You never mean anything, that’s the trouble.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke that made him cough. I took the cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it in the cut-glass ashtray. He frowned at me and I glared right back at him.

“Now who’s interfering?” he said.

“There’s interfering and there’s saving you from asphyxiation.”

After that, the tension eased up a little.

“Look, if you want us to be friends you can’t treat me like I’m an object that you can take or leave depending on your mood of the moment,” I said.

He blushed.

“That’s not what happened last night,” he replied, after he’d thought it over. “I felt that I was in the way. I have little in common with those musicians.”

“You were always able to mix with any crowd,” I said. “Remember that time when you chatted with a nun about the benefits of the afternoon siesta?”

He chuckled, as he recalled the episode.

“If she’d only known what we used to get up to during the siesta,” he quipped, as his hand went to his neck. He was massaging the spot which I had bit into, that time in Dorsoduro. I forced myself not to look, but the image was branded in my mind. My body, still torpid from sleep and caressed by the wool of the dressing gown, was tingling all over. The sense of danger was so strong and immediate that I had to dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand to chase it away. I’d just regained my cool, when I saw that Oliver’s robe had opened on his upper chest; not much, but enough to show his collarbones and the tuft of hair at the hollow of his throat. When he saw that I’d noticed, he pulled it closed again.

I wanted to laugh hysterically: it was absurd; I was behaving like a Victorian virgin bride.

This couldn’t go on - I thought - if we had to be friends.

“I shouldn’t have bitten you,” I said. “I didn’t think, it sort of happened, like the French say, _malgré moi_.”

His hand was still clutching the collar of his robe. “I didn’t mind,” he said.

“Still, it was uncalled for.”

“Maybe, but it was not unpleasant.”

I laughed. “You don’t have to make me feel better. I know that it was a brutal thing to do.”

Oliver was avoiding my gaze and blinking rapidly.

“That’s not why,” he hesitated then drew a deep breath. “I liked it,” he murmured.

“What?”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, but he thought I was being incredulous.

“Why are you surprised?” he spat out. “I may have been a fucking coward but I’ve never treated you like you were sick. Yes, I liked it, so what? It’s not like you drew blood like a vampire and who knows, maybe I’d have enjoyed that too, so sue me!”

His tirade came to a close and I was finding it hard not to smile. I gave in and he grinned too, shaking his head.

“This isn’t the kind of conversation I normally have at seven in the morning,” he said.

“You know me,” I replied, “I’m a grouch before noon.”

Oddly, the discussion had taken a turn for the better, but even though we had defused that bomb, I was certain that other mines were disseminated along the path and that sooner or later, we’d step on one and it would blow up in our faces.

 

 

Since he didn’t have to be anywhere and I had rehearsals in the afternoon, we went back to bed and agreed that we’d have lunch near Rialto, which was on the way to the Malibran Theatre. We took the ferry from Santa Sofia to Campo della Pescheria and strolled through the Erberia. It was a sunny day with a brisk Northerly wind. Oliver bought oranges and artichokes, and skate from the fish market. I was basking in the happiness of the moment, watching him haggle and gesticulate with the vendors, when a man came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder.

“If that isn’t my _amico americano_ ,” he exclaimed, before turning towards me and appraising me with curiosity. “And is this the beautiful boy?” he enquired.


	12. Paradise Lingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are slowly but surely getting there...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is obviously fiction even though some of the people here described exist or have existed. I know zero about music, so forgive the mistakes. In short: try to enjoy the plot and forget reality lmaooo  
> Thanks again for your support and for your comments. They make me very happy.

 

I was treading on dangerous ground when I went to Elio’s room, but he’d been muttering and whimpering in his sleep and I’d been worried in case something was wrong.

He seemed so fragile, with his pale skin and his slender frame buried underneath the heavy covers.

I should have left before he caught me in the act, but it was not a realistic option.

We’d never truly lived together and yet the familiarity of having him in the house, sharing that intimate space with him, had been like a punch in the solar plexus. It ached in places and ways I had not anticipated.

Conversation was still difficult, disseminated as it was with pitfalls, but I sensed that Elio was relenting and that he was starting to trust me again.

At the market, I had done by best to show off my improved Italian and my ability to strike a bargain: everything was going well, until we ran into Mario Stefani.

I should have predicted that we might find him there, but being a Friday, I had supposed him to be at work in Mestre, where he taught _letteratura_.

Elio stared at him and I blushed up to my eyeballs.

“Don’t mind me,” the poet said, laughing. “It was just a joke, _uno scherzo_. When Oliver told me that he’d met an old friend, I jumped to conclusions. That’s the trouble with troubadours.” He laughed at his own verbal dexterity.

Elio had recovered from the surprise of being addressed by a stranger and was smiling.

“Are you saying that you don’t think I’m beautiful?” he said.

Stefani examined him closely.

“You remind me of the Ganymede that used to hang from the ceiling of Palazzo Grimani.”

Rudy has shown it to me, as it was being kept in storage during the restoration of the palace; Mario was right: the resemblance was undeniable.

“He’s so beautiful that Zeus falls in love with him and – in the form of an eagle - abducts him,” the poet concluded, clearly very pleased with his anecdote.

It was Elio’s turn to be embarrassed. “Now I wish I hadn’t asked,” he murmured.

“No need for fake modesty,” Mario reassured him. Then he introduced himself and invited us to lunch. I realised that perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to buy groceries, especially the fish, considering that we were going to a restaurant. I said as much to Stefani but he was undaunted.

“We’ll go see Paolino,” he said, “It’s not far from here, in Ruga San Giovanni.”

He led us to a cosy _osteria_ , with a black and white chequered floor and walls painted the same red as his braces.

Paolino – a wiry man in his fifties - was the owner; he and Mario chatted for a while in Venetian dialect; ten minutes later we were served beef and garlic meatballs, stuffed aubergines, all accompanied by a bottle of Merlot. The food smelled delicious and tasted even better. Elio tucked into it as though he’d not eaten for a month, and I was ravenous too.

“How was the party?” Stefani asked, as he poured the wine.

Elio’s eyes widened, but he stayed silent.

“Who told you we were there?” I enquired.

“It’s not magic or divination, I assure you,” he replied. “Venice thrives on gossip. And Ludovico is a good friend of mine.”

“He wanted to paint on Oliver’s body,” Elio said, licking his lips. I must have been the food he was savouring, but my nether regions responded all the same.

“An interesting idea,” Mario remarked, “You’d have been on the front page of the Gazzettino: American strips naked at high society event.”

“Not the sort of notoriety I’m seeking. In fact, I prefer to fly under the radar.”

I shifted on the chair and since there wasn’t much room, my thigh brushed against Elio’s. He stopped chewing for a moment, but he did not move away.

Mario eyed us both with obvious amusement.

“You are a musician, if I am not mistaken,” he said to Elio, who nodded and explained that he was going to play at the Guggenheim fundraiser and that he was due to rehearse at the Malibran after lunch.

“The theatre used to belong to the Grimani family. Cardinal Grimani was one of Handel’s librettists. In those days, the Carnival used to last for months.”

“I can’t wait to see the masks,” I said.

“You will have to wear a costume too,” Stefani replied, and to Elio, “You could go dressed as the Red Priest.”

“That’s Vivaldi,” Elio said, turning towards me. His lips were stained red with wine and his cheeks were rosy. “He was called that because he had ginger hair.”

I agreed that it was a good idea while Mario was throwing in suggestions for my attire, which seemed to be mainly super-heroes in skin-tight bodysuits. I wasn’t going to prance around in tights while Elio wore the robes of a famous composer: that would be ridiculous, I argued.

“Nothing is too outré for Carnival,” declared Stefani, raising his glass to toast the occasion. “Speaking of which, I will be doing a reading in Campo San Maurizio and you are both invited, of course.”

It was the first I’d heard about that so I wondered whether it was a private event. He shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“It’s the infamous Erotic Poetry Festival, which always takes place during Carnival.”

Elio’s thigh was now flush against mine and I felt him shudder.

“Is that what you write?” he asked.

“Mostly, yes,” Mario replied, “What else is there but love and beauty?”

I kept my eyes fixed on my food and suspected that Elio was doing the same.

The poet rummaged inside the pockets of his coat and extracted a leather-bound notebook. He leafed through it and found what he’d been searching for.

“ _My boy’s skin is like amber musk, Sun-dappled, Rivalling the silky Oriental damask, Craved and Beloved, Beneath my avid fingers, Your scented Paradise lingers_ ,” he read.

The two ladies at the table next to ours pretended to ignore him, but they were doing a terrible job of it. Paolino came out from behind the counter to inform us that he was going to have some of Mario’s poems printed on the inside cover of his menus. We didn’t know what to say to that, so we smiled and ordered coffee.

 

I’d intended to go with Elio to the Malibran, but I decided it would be better to show up later.

“I’ve got to put this in the fridge,” I said, meaning the fish I’d just purchased.

Mario was going home so I proposed to take a detour to accompany him.

“You don’t have to come,” Elio said, when we parted in Campo San Giovanni, “It’s gonna be boring for you.”

“I’ll bring a book,” I replied.

He was still wearing his suit from the night before, but I had lent him one of my sweaters; the sleeves were long enough to cover his hands and he was using them as mittens; he waved at us, turned and walked away.

 

We were traversing the San Polo district when Mario broached the subject of Elio.

The conversation had been about art and literature, and I found it very stimulating, despite the belated effects of the hangover. I needed to lie down in the dark so I let my mind wander.

“He’s rather cute,” the poet was saying, when I tuned in again. “Not enough muscles, but beautiful eyes. Soulful, that’s the word. I understand your dilemma.”

“There is no dilemma, not anymore,” I replied. “We’ve agreed we are going to be just friends.”

He stopped dead in the middle of the _calle_ and shot me a look of utter incredulity.

“Are you kidding me?” he half-shouted. “You were stroking his leg under the table.”

I returned his look in spades.

“I was not!” I exclaimed. “We were sitting close because there wasn’t any room.”

He scoffed. “How come you weren’t stroking my leg then?”

“There was no leg-stroking, and why are you rolling your eyes at me?”

“Because I’m fifty and write poems about naked boys and you’re, what, thirty, and want to be friends with a kid you should be ravishing day and night. There is no fairness in this world.”

Passersby were staring at us, so we resumed walking.

“He doesn’t want to be ravished. Things are more complicated than they seem,” I said, more calmly.

“I’m sure they are and I am sorry if I invaded your privacy,” he replied, raising his hands in surrender. “But, if you allow me to speak from the peak of this deserted hill called experience, let me just say: that boy does not like you only as a friend. My lovely Nicola –remember him?” I nodded. “Yes, well, he likes me only that way, but your Elio, his eyes were shining every time he looked at you.”

“He’s not my Elio,” I said, but he wasn’t listening.

“You had described an angel, but let me tell you: that kid is no angel,” he chuckled. “He was salivating at the idea of Ludovico painting on your skin.”

“He was only having fun at my expense.”

Mario shook his head and protested with sighs and gestures.

“Fun, my eye,” he quipped. “And don’t let me add anything more or it’ll spoil our friendship.”

I assured him that I wasn’t angry and I didn’t resent his comments; he invited me to his apartment, because he had something he wanted to give me.

The object in question was a framed sketch of the Abduction of Ganymede sculpture we had talked about at lunch.

“Ludovico made two of them,” he explained, “I’m keeping the largest one and I’d like you to have this.”

It was exquisite and the head of the boy was uncannily like seventeen-year-old Elio.

“I can’t accept it,” I replied, “One day it will be worth a lot and you’ll regret having given it to me for nothing.”

“I never regret my acts of love,” he declared. “Besides, you might need an excuse to invite your _friend_ back to your place without having to get drunk again.”

I made a face and he laughed heartily.

 

It was just gone five when I entered the Malibran theatre.

Rudy had added my name to the list of people who were allowed in for the rehearsals. The Director, a youngish man with untidy clothes and rimless glasses, was related to one of the oldest families in Venice, the Foscaris, and his name was Pietro.

When I took my seat in the front row, he shot me an impatient look; I guessed he was about to ask me who I was when he thought he had better things to do and went on with instructing the musicians.

As for me, I was barely aware of my magnificent surroundings, because Elio – still wearing my woollen sweater – was sitting at the harpsichord.

He and Adriana were listening attentively to what Foscari was saying. I’d never heard him play the harpsichord before and I wasn’t prepared for the effect that it, combined with the singing, would have on me. Later, I discovered that it was Monteverdi’s _Lamento d’Arianna_ , but the lyrics, the melody and Elio’s expression as he caressed the keyboard transported me back to the past. I felt the sorrow and the desperation in the invocation of “let me die, let me die,” and I saw it reflected in Elio’s tense features. When it ended, I realised that I’d been crying.

 

The next three hours taught me more about Elio’s profession than any explanation however detailed ever could. They tried the _Lamento_ again adding a viola da gamba, but Foscari wasn’t happy so they tried it once more with a cello instead of the viola. Adriana was allowed to rest when they replayed it yet once more.

They moved on to the Vivaldi’s _Estro Armonico_ , and Elio rehearsed the Feinberg Bach transcription of a concerto that had been originally written for strings.

It reminded me of the Bach he’d played for me and when his eyes briefly met mine, I knew that his memory had guided him back to that sultry afternoon when we’d flirted openly for the first time.


	13. Bed and Board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio is being difficult but Oliver is not backing down. 
> 
> Oliver's POV

“I don’t like the way he was shouting at you,” I told Elio, as I accompanied him back to his hotel. He was exhausted and I suggested a water taxi, but he didn’t want to waste his money when it was only fifteen minutes on foot. I would have paid for it, but I sensed that it would have been a mistake to propose it. There was a tension between us that wasn’t only to do with Elio’s tiredness.

“Who, Foscari?” he wondered, his mind clearly elsewhere. “If you think that’s shouting, you should have heard my first piano teacher. I rather like him: he offered me a couple of useful suggestions and he was very patient when I made mistakes at the harpsichord.”

“I didn’t know you could play it at all.”

“Hmm,” he replied, “And the organ, but I’m relieved I won’t have to.”

He wasn’t exactly cold, but I wondered if he’d have preferred being alone. I was on the verge of asking, when he blurted out, “Please don’t come back to see the rehearsals.”

I felt the blood drain from my face and my head spinning. I bit my lips and kept going.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he hastened to add, “But if I know that you’re there, I’ll get nervous. That’s the time when we try different things and make all kinds of stupid mistakes. I need to be allowed to fail, and I can’t do that with you in the audience.”

My cheeks went from icy to burning red in no time.

“You can do what you like,” I replied, “I’m not there to judge you. Hell, I can’t tell Vivaldi from Monteverdi, so I wouldn’t know if and when you hit a wrong note.”

He guided me towards a _sottoportego_ – a sheltered passageway between buildings – and looked up at me with serious eyes. “It’s not about your intentions, but your presence there. I’m not accusing you of anything; I am telling you that I’m scared of what might happen.”

I glanced at his arms and back at his clenched jaw and wished I could be anybody else but the person who’d left him feeling that he wasn’t good enough. There was no possible answer but to grant him his wish despite the pain it caused me.

“Okay,” I said, “But I want you to know that I loved the way you played. I thought that you were marvellous, all of you. And you in particular.”

He looked away and smiled. “I was adequate, but thanks,” he said.

My ploy to see Elio more frequently had failed and he was going to have little spare time while he’d have been on a break from the Fenice had I not interfered.

Well done Oliver, I thought, bitterly. And then, out of desperation, another idea came to me. There was no time to embellish it and I was afraid to let him go without having tried my absolute best.

“I was wondering,” I started, “Since I have a spare room and the Malibran is close to Palazzo Silva, if you would move in with me. It would save you money and time; and like I said, there is a piano in the salottino next to the library.  No one is using it and I’m sure that Rose would be more than happy---”

“Are you listening to me?” he snapped. “I beg you to let me breathe and you ask me to share your apartment. What happens when you go out, get drunk and take someone home with you? And don’t say that it won’t happen. Don’t you dare!”

“What do you take me for?” I hissed.

“A man with a healthy libido,” he replied, “Sooner or later, you’ll want to get some and I’d rather not be present when it happens.”

“And you, are you not gonna get _some_?”

He grimaced. “None of your business,” he spat out.

Above us, the shutters of a window closed with a loud thump. The interruption calmed us down a little, and I felt guilty of having kept Elio out in the chilly night.

“Let’s go,” I said, and he nodded his head.

We walked side by side, in silence.

“I’m not interested in one-night stands,” I said, when we arrived at San Marco. “And I’ve had enough of meaningless sex too. I’d take your company over any of that.”

Elio snorted. “You’re not a hundred,” he scoffed. “And Mario will be on your case, if you don’t hurry up.”

I took a deep breath and went for it.

“Mario thinks that you should be ravished day and night,” I said, “Those were his exact words.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That you didn’t want to be ravished, because---”

He snickered. “Because I have better things to do, like taking a long bath and enjoying one of Vendetta’s amazing lentil soups.”

We were in front of Ateneo, just behind the Fenice.

“I’ll return your sweater next time I see you,” he said.

“And when will that be?” I asked, feeling empty and cold.

“Soon,” he replied, but he was already walking away from me, and did not turn round once.

 

The following day, the rain came down in grey sheets, its unending patter drowning the peals of Santa Maria church bells.

Elio would be at the Malibran, I imagined, since they were due to rehearse every day except for Sundays. I didn’t feel like going out, so I grilled the fish and ate it while reading the English version of the _Songs of Meleager_. The translator was an obscure writer nick-named Baron Corvo, who – according to the notes on the dust-jacket – had died, poor and disgraced, in Venice. He’d been Mario’s age and, like him, a homosexual who had a predilection for young men.

The _Serenissima_ was a catalyst for doomed romances of that sort, I reflected, and for death, whether by suicide or other tragic means.

It was early afternoon when the phone rang and shook me out of my depression.

“Is that Oliver?” an elderly woman’s voice enquired.

“Speaking,” I replied.

“You said I should get in touch if I felt like it.”

“Ms Rudge,” I said, “Happy to hear from you.”

“Please call me Olga, I’m too old for formalities,” she argued. “I have heard your friend is going to play Vivaldi at the fundraiser.”

I made a noise to confirm that she was right.

“I have told Jane that I wish to play the piece we did that day.”

“What did she say?”

Olga cackled.

“She tried to convince me not to do it, but I’ve made up my mind. The thing is, I can’t walk around Venice like I used to so your friend will have to come to my house. I assured Jane that you will take care of it.”

“Take care of what?”

“Of telling him,” she replied. “She will inform the board, the committee, or whatever they are called.”

That did not sound promising, not after what Elio and I had discussed the previous evening.

“He’s quite busy, with this event and his Conservatory job on top of everything.”

“A couple of Sunday afternoons should be more than adequate,” she replied. “It’s a short piece and he’s a fast learner. I’ll expect both of you tomorrow at two. I’d invite you to lunch but I always play better on an empty stomach.”

I didn’t have time to protest: she’d already rung off.

Death in Venice was going to be my epitaph, I pondered grimly, as I weighed the pros and cons of telling Elio by phone or in person: the former was less invasive and the latter less rude.

“Who am I kidding?” I said out loud, and made up my mind that I’d go to the Malibran and wait at the reception. Like I’d told Elio, I’d bring a book and read until he was done.

 

As it often happens, when the musicians came out of the theatre, I was outside smoking a cigarette. After having been cooped up all day, and since the rain had ceased pouring down, I was in need of fresh air.

“Oliver?” I heard his voice before I saw him. He was wearing a bobble hat with a big furry pom-pom that bounced with every step he took.

“I can explain,” I said, watching the young men and women who passed us by and said goodbye to Elio. He waited for them to be gone and asked me for a cigarette.

He took a couple of drags and scrunched his nose.

“I wanted to apologise, again,” he smiled, “I was tired, but that’s no excuse. I’m better now.”

“Because I wasn’t there,” I supplied.

“I was tense because it had been a while, being the centre of attention,” he said, waving his free hand.

“No more apologies,” I replied, “I’m here because of Olga.”

I told him about the violinist’s phone call and how I had been unable to refuse her proposal. When I finished, he groaned loudly.

“And I was hoping to sleep all day tomorrow,” he complained.

“Could you maybe arrange it for another time?”

“We don’t have much time and I’m busy almost every day. I can’t say no to Olga Rudge, can I?”

I shook my head, adding, “She said she expects both of us. I don’t know what she wants with me.”

He grinned. “You’re her game-keeper from Lady Chatterley,” he quipped. “Maybe she wants to see you shirtless again.”

“I wasn’t exactly shirtless,” I protested. “I was wearing a t-shirt.”

“More like a tattoo than a top if you ask me,” he muttered.

“When did you become such a prude?”

His pom-pom swung like a pendulum. “You can parade around in the nude on a gondola for all I care,” he argued.

“Okay,” I replied, “Than that’s what I’ll do for Carnival. I’ll ask Ludovico to paint me then I’ll hire a gondola and travel up and down the Grand Canal.”

“You’ll freeze to death.”

“I’ll have my friend Napoleon with me.”

Elio frowned and his eyebrows joined in one straight, bushy line.

“Alcohol,” I said, “Napoleon Brandy.”

“You’ll fall in the canal and drown.”

“Prudish and gloomy,” I replied, smiling.

He threw his stub in a puddle.

“I’m starving,” he said, “You’re buying me dinner and it better be in a place with no music. I’ve had enough of it for today.”

 

I made sure of taking short cuts Elio was bound to be unfamiliar with and it was only when we came in sight of Rio della Misericordia that he joined the dots.

“You are taking me to your apartment.”

“No music there,” I replied. “The Lamberts have gone to Padua, so the place is as quiet as the grave. And I have something to show you.”

“I was there yesterday morning, what could have changed since then?”

“Only one way to find out,” I answered, hoping that he wouldn’t tell me to go to hell.

“I’m too hungry to argue,” he said, striding past me with an air of extreme annoyance.

 

We ended up having linguine with pesto, since that was the quickest dish I could rustle up. Elio taunted me with Vendetta’s seafood bisque, comparing her excellent food to my modest fare.

“That’s unfair,” I said, as he wolfed down his pasta. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

He arched one eyebrow.

“No,” I insisted. “I did not orchestrate Olga’s phone call in order to lure you to my cave.”

“I almost agreed to go for a drink with the others,” he said. “But I was looking forward to the bisque.”

“Maybe you’ll go next time.”

I wondered if anyone had caught his eye, but didn’t want to ask.

“They are a great bunch,” he said, “But I’ve spent the day with them and I needed to be alone.”

His parents had used to worry about Elio’s desire for solitude, but I understood him.

“We don’t have to talk,” I said. “I can read my book and you can relax on the couch.”

I poured him another glass of Orvieto and he observed me intently.

“I’m not going to go home tonight, am I?” he remarked.

I couldn’t tell whether he was in favour or against the idea.

“No, I shouldn’t think so,” I replied, with a confidence I was far from feeling.


	14. Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I swear that this chapter was supposed to be one thing and turned out to be a completely different one. I had everything mapped out and still the characters laughed at me and did their own thing. 
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of past self-harm. 
> 
> Mind the fluff...

 

We spent most of that evening in the living room: Elio was stretched out on the couch, occasionally smoking, while I sat on the rug with my back against the armrest, reading the Meleager.

From time to time, he would ask me questions and I’d reply without lifting my eyes off the page. It was all for show, naturally, since I found it hard to concentrate while being so close to Elio.

Maybe because he’d spent the last couple of days focussing solely on himself and his music, his curiosity was directed to me and my pastimes.

“I’ve never heard of it,” he remarked, referring to my book. “Is it a good translation?”

“I wouldn’t say that, but when it comes to literature and poetry, accuracy is not top of the list.”

He hummed and blew out a fine streamer of smoke.

“Same goes for transcription,” he commented. “Retaining the character of the piece is much more important.”

“The language is archaic but so is the original Greek.”

“Couldn’t you translate it in modern English?” he suggested.

“I’m not a poet,” I replied, “And it’s been ages since I wrote something.”

“How come?”

I didn’t want to bore him with the story of my failures but I didn’t wish to appear evasive.

“I was trying to keep up with the requirements of academia but my heart wasn’t in it,” I explained. “I was like an animal in hibernation: waiting for some kind of spring.”

“Was your--- was she okay with it?”

I snorted a laugh. “Not really, but---”

“But what?”

I swung round to look at his face. He was staring at the ceiling, apparently contemplating the rotund _putti_ flying about in their gilded heavens.

“It will sound pretentious, but we had money so it didn’t matter that I wasn’t advancing in my career as fast as we both would have liked.”

He looked at me and it was so sudden that I felt as though I was being accused of some heinous crime.

“Did you marry her because she was rich?” he asked.

I recoiled as if he’d slapped me and I had to swallow a few times before replying.

“The money was, is, mine, but thanks for thinking the worst of me. I suppose I deserve it.”

Elio crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, which was resting on his stomach.

“You don’t and I was horrible,” he replied. “I don’t know why I said it.”

He slid down the couch and came to sit at my side. His feet were clad in fluffy angora socks which could only have been hand-knitted. When he caught me looking, he flexed his toes.

“Vendetta’s a woman of many talents,” he joked.

“You’ll have to wash them in cold water or they’ll shrink.”

He bumped his shoulder against mine and took the book off my hands. I wasn’t done with my explanation and I knew that it was my turn to speak of the past.

“One of my uncles died and left me a huge sum of money, soon after my marriage. It’s all invested and it’s enough to last me a lifetime. I gave some to--- her when we divorced, not that she needed, or asked for, it.”

“And that’s how you can afford to rent a Venetian Palazzo while being unemployed,” he observed, with a hint of bitterness.

“I don’t want to live the rest of my days without a purpose,” I said, “Coming here was the best decision I’ve made in a while. I might even invest in the Pound Foundation.”

He chuckled. “Jane Ryland will have you kidnapped and shipped back to the States.”

I had not thought about it before saying it to Elio, but now that I had, the idea seemed excellent. I could rent or purchase a warehouse and keep the papers safe under lock and key, until Olga had decided to whom she wanted to sell or bequeath them.

“You’re mad,” he declared, but I could tell that he was enjoying the prospect of being part of this operation. “And she might forget she allowed you to store the papers and accuse you of theft.”

“I’ll ask Rudy to find me a lawyer and have her sign a contract.”

“Jane Ryland will have him disbarred.”

“She’s not with the mafia,” I argued.

 “I’ve heard that she was with Peggy Guggenheim when she died,” he said. “And out of the blue, Jane’s husband was the Director of the museum.”

He arched his eyebrows and hummed Chopin’s funeral march.

“Stop it,” I exclaimed, nudging his side with my elbow. “No one will get hurt, abducted or killed.”

That reminded me of the drawing I’d intended to show him, that of The Abduction of Ganymede. It was on top of a cabinet in my bedroom, so I went to fetch it. When I handed it to him, he examined it with interest but did not seem to notice the resemblance.

“Mario gave it to me,” I said, “The artist is Ludovico.”

“It’s beautiful,” he remarked. “I can’t wait to see the original once the Palazzo is restored.”

I could not stay silent. “Stefani was right: he looks like you, the way you were when we first met.”

“He’s shorter and plumper,” he argued.

“Are we still talking about the statue?”

Elio rolled his eyes and groaned.

“You are too old for these terrible puns,” he said.

“First you call me a man with a healthy libido and now I’m too old for dick jokes.”

He laughed but his cheeks were flushed.

“Anyway, if you were talking of _that_ , mine’s better in every way.”

I made sure that the Ganymede sketch was out of the way and resumed my place next to him.

The atmosphere had changed; it was no longer all fun and games.

“I haven’t forgotten what you look like,” I murmured, “But I wouldn’t say no to a reminder.”

I was afraid to breathe too noisily in case it broke the spell.

“Friends don’t do that.”

“Some do,” I argued, hoping not to sound as desperate as I felt, “When they have been lonely for too long.”

He leaned into me a fraction, or maybe I was only imagining it. His closeness, the scent of his hair and the cosiness of the room were making me light-headed.

“Have you been lonely, Oliver?” he whispered.

My throat ached with unsaid endearments. I nodded and buried my face in his curls; he wrapped his arm around my waist and it was then that I let myself go.

It started with quiet tears but soon I was sobbing with abandon, unable to restrain myself.

Elio was stroking my bare leg with his angora-clad foot; it was not unlike being caressed by a cat. I told him so, and he meowed softly, turning my grief once again into desire. He must have sensed it, because he let go of me, putting an inch of distance between our bodies.

“I wasn’t being modest,” he said, “It’s just that after what happened, after what I did, I don’t like being naked in front of people. I look awful, with the scars and everything.”

“I’ve seen your arms---”

“There’s more that you haven’t seen,” he murmured, “On my inner thighs.”

I shuddered, picturing Elio cutting himself, dripping with blood, scared, alone.

“You don’t have to do it, if it makes you feel bad,” I said, “But you could never look awful, certainly not to me. And I’d do anything to help, seriously I would.”

He nodded his head and bit the inside of his cheek, like he often did when he was emotional.  I suggested that he needed a rest and gave him a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to wear as a pyjama. I used the bathroom first so that he could take his time, if he wanted to soak in the tub or have a long shower.

We said goodnight and I went to my room feeling more confused than ever.

 

Two hours later, I was still tossing and turning, my mind refusing to switch off.

I was too hot then too cold and finally, I couldn’t stand the sensation of the cotton sheets rubbing on my skin. I was debating whether I should turn on the nightlight in order to read a book, when the door handle creaked. I listened intently, and there it was, again. A moment later, the door opened and Elio came in, a dark silhouette only marginally denser than its surroundings.

“Leave the lights off,” he whispered.

“Okay,” I murmured, and before I could pinch myself to check whether I was dreaming, he took off his clothes and slid beneath the covers.

“You said you would do anything,” he said, in low, breathy tones, “Could you just touch me?”

I was naked too, and in a strange state between shocked and aroused. I felt the warmth and smelled the mix of soap and sweat that emanated from his skin: they made me dizzy. Since I wasn’t moving, he rolled into my arms, his back to my chest.

“Give me your hand,” he said, and when I complied, he guided it to his thigh. I let him take control and he pushed my fingers into his flesh, until I could feel the shallow grooves of his scars, which were like stretch-marks. His heart was thumping and mine was responding in kind. I was afraid that my cock might get the wrong signals and that Elio would leave my bed and never return to it.

“Is that--- do you find it disgusting?” he murmured.

Instead of talking, I started caressing his inner thighs, first one and then the other, and back again. I don’t know how long this lasted, but I eventually I realised that Elio had fallen asleep. I kissed his hair, closed my eyes, and waited for my oblivion.

 

Towards morning, he went back to his room. I heard him but pretended not to, and since it was still dark, I let sleep overtake me once more.

 

When I opened my eyes again, the air was filled with the aroma of fresh coffee.

I padded to the kitchen and found Elio - still in my t-shirt and sweatpants – frying eggs. His curls were all tangled up and he was barefoot.

“I didn’t have any eggs,” I said, “Please tell me you didn't go out to buy them.”

He turned around and his eyes went wide. I was so used to being alone that I had forgotten to put on my robe.

“Your housekeeper left the eggs, a loaf of bread and some milk,” he replied, blinking furiously. “She must have come in very early.”

I smiled and retreated to the bathroom, giving Elio a panoramic view of my back and ass.

 

We had our breakfast in the kitchen, and since the day was sunny and the sky pure blue, I opened the shutters and let the shimmery light in.

I didn’t mention what had happened during the night, but asked Elio whether he’d slept well.

“Very,” he replied, spreading strawberry conserve on a slice of bread. “It’s much quieter here than at the hotel. I love it there, but it’s like being a student all over again.”

I agreed that hotels were good in the short term but that after a while, one needed a place of one’s own.

“People barge in every time they want or need something,” he went on. “Remember Alberto?”

The flautist, I said, of course I remembered.

“It’s either borrowing stuff or talking about girls and football,” he explained, “I don’t mind, but sometimes I’m very tired and only want to be on my own.”

“You could put a ‘do not disturb’ sign outside the door,” I suggested.

He threw me a sardonic look.

“Like that’s gonna stop them,” he argued. “I could lock myself in, but that won’t work either. I suppose that I will have to find my own apartment sooner or later.”

I hummed in agreement, as I tucked into my fried eggs.

“I don’t like cooking and Vendetta’s cuisine reminds me of Mafalda’s.”

He sipped his coffee and scrunched his nose.

“I don’t make much money, but with this event and the salary from the Conservatory, I should be able to afford somewhere decent.”

“I will ask Rudy,” I suggested, knowing that it would annoy him, “He will sort you out.”

“I don’t need his help,” he snapped. “I know people too. I may ask Foscari: his family has been here since forever.”

I’d had enough of playing games so I took his hand in mine.

“I have a spare room and I love cooking,” I said. “I won’t bother you when you want to be alone and if you need a book, there’s an entire library on top of us. Rose is best friends with Pino the water taxi driver so he gives us a big discount. He lives next door and his boat is just outside.”

Elio laced his fingers with mine and smiled.


	15. Lost Sonata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Olga has something to say and something to offer.
> 
> This is a more 'plotty' chapter but it moves things along...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I said about Renata Borgatti, Olga Rudge and Ezra Pound is all true (as far as we know).
> 
> We are still discovering works by Vivaldi and Pound/Rudge did a lot to promote this composer who, at the time (1920s-30s) was still fairly obscure (it seems absurd now).

I couldn’t quite believe that Elio had agreed to move in with me, and I was welcoming the distraction of visiting Olga, afraid that he would change his mind if he had time and leisure to think about it.

Pino was taking a couple to Accademia, so we agreed to split the fare then walk from Accademia to Calle Querini.

Elio frowned during the entire journey and didn’t say a word.

“I want to pay my share,” he said, once we disembarked.

“You don’t need to, but if you insist,” I replied, and watched as he counted the Liras and placed them in my hand.

“If I am not paying rent, this is the least I can do.”

I didn’t want to start a discussion about money, so I let that pass. I could understand his reasons and appreciated his fear of becoming too dependent on me, but I didn’t want to constantly hold back either.

The clouds in his expression dissipated after that and by the time we reached Olga’s Hidden Nest, he was almost like the Elio I’d used to know.

I gave the door a few loud raps and we prepared to wait for a while, but instead found ourselves face to face with an unknown young man.

“You must be Olga’s guests,” he said, as he let us in.

He had a marked English accent, brown slanted eyes and high cheekbones.

“I’m Larry,” he announced, and we introduced ourselves, but when we were about to shake his hand, we saw that it was – like his ratty clothes – smudged with paint.

“Olga’s posing for me,” he explained.

“Last time she told us she didn’t want to have her portrait taken,” Elio observed.

“Are we done?” Olga shouted from somewhere upstairs.

We climbed the staircase and found her sitting on a chaise longue, next to an open suitcase overflowing with garments.

Larry pre-empted our questions on that odd set-up.

“She insisted and I couldn’t say no,” he said, smiling at her.

“I don’t like being given orders,” was her cryptic remark.

We left Larry working on his canvas and we helped her downstairs; she offered us tea and while I was pouring it, she clarified what she’d meant.

“Laurence has been paid by the something-or-other gallery in London to paint my portrait. Jane found out and insisted that I should pose with a bust of Ezra and a stack of his books. When I replied that it was out of the question, she went behind my back and told Larry. The poor boy was deeply shaken.”

“I bet he was,” I said, and she stared at me.

“Oliver’s been taken to task too,” said Elio.

I related my encounter with Mrs Ryland in the Browning room.

“That’s a lovely poem,” she commented, “But that doesn’t excuse her behaviour.”

“She’s your friend so she worries about you,” I argued.

“There’s a line between caring for someone and behaving in a proprietary manner,” Elio said. “I wouldn’t want a friend,” he gazed at me, “to take over my life.”

Olga snorted.

“I am with you my boy, which is why I ordered Larry to paint me in his room, surrounded by his objects.”

“Is he staying here?” I asked.

“Yes, well, he’s mostly out, enjoying himself. He has friends in Burano,” she replied, obviously uninterested.

As if on cue, Larry sauntered in and said that, since he was finished for the day, he would pop to the island and spend the night there.

When he was gone, Olga put her tea cup down on its saucer and said, “A boyfriend, I imagine, or more than one. Renata always used to call them friends, her lovers. I don’t know why she bothered, I couldn’t have cared less.”

Elio and I were speechless, but she carried on, blissfully unaware.

“Renata Borgatti, the pianist,” she addressed Elio, who nodded while looking as though he’d just swallowed a wasp. “Ezra couldn’t stand her, called her performing style ‘plonking’, and she disliked him too, of course. We played together for years and I met all her _friends_. One of them was the Singer sewing machines heiress, of all people!” She cackled and we joined in.

I was curious to see where that was going and I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“That was the 1920s, and I can’t believe that I’m hearing that _friend_ nonsense seventy years later,” she concluded.

“The situation hasn’t been improved by recent developments,” I noted, and she shook her bird-like head with decision.

“That’s a terrible disease,” she said, “But it doesn’t excuse the petty narrow-mindedness and most of all, the intrusion. It’s nobody’s business what one does in one’s bedroom.”

I guessed that being the lover of a married man she must have endured censure and nasty gossip too.

“My advice is: always live the way you want to or you’ll regret it when it’s too late,” she concluded, “And call things by their name: it saves a lot of time.”

 

After that exceptional conversation, she and Elio went to the study to rehearse and I was left in the sole company of my thoughts. I wondered what had given us away, since she seemed to be convinced that we were lovers.  I was reflecting on what had happened the previous time we’d been here, when Olga came in.

“You’ll be bored to death,” she said, “Why don’t you have a look inside the rosewood box on that shelf and when I’m done with Vivaldi, we’ll chat about it.”

I did as told and sat on the chesterfield armchair with the box on my lap. I lifted the lid and was presented with a stack of letters, each of them inside a transparent plastic pocket.

The top on was dated 24th December, written from Paris and started with _Caro Mio_ , my darling, but I soon realised that it was addressed to T S Eliot and that it mostly consisted of advice about the editing of The Waste Land. It was a precious document and if I’d been the Aspern type, I would have risked a lot to possess it.

The second one was Eliot’s reply, and then the conversation continued over several missives which I did my best to decipher. I was tackling the last one when Elio barged in, pink-cheeked and glowing.

“Okay?” I enquired.

“She’s amazing!” he enthused. “We are so good together!”

Olga summoned us in the study and we went; I, carrying the box with me.

She lay on the couch with her eyes shut.

“You must be very tired,” I said, “We’ll leave you to reuperate.”

“Tell me about the letters,” she replied.

I placed the box on a low table and sat on the chair opposite Elio.

“They’re priceless,” I told her. “You should put them somewhere safe.”

“I don’t like banks,” she said, “And they are my daughter’s inheritance.”

Elio gazed at me and raised his eyebrows.

“Why don’t you place them in storage?” I asked. “Surely there are people you could hire and they would do it for you. If money’s an issue---”

She waved a small veined hand at me.

“I’m not rich, but that’s not the problem. If I try to hire someone, the whole of Venice will find out.”

“I could do it for you.”

She opened her eyes and stared at me.

“Would you really?”

“Yes, and I’d have a contract drafted to ensure you that you remain the sole owner of the papers.”

“The place would have to be in Venice,” she argued. “I want to be able to visit them at a moment’s notice.”

“I will find you a warehouse for your thirteen crates, and I will pay for it.”

Elio scrunched his nose, but Olga did not protest.

“In exchange for that, I will give Elio the score of a Vivaldi composition which has never been performed. In fact, it’s not been seen by another living soul aside from me and Ezra. It’s a violin sonata but you could easily transcribe it for the pianoforte. If Feinberg could, I don't see why you shouldn't.”

Elio’s mouth was open in a perfect ‘o’ and when he recovered enough to speak, his voice was high pitched.

“You can’t do that,” he shrieked then more softly, “Can you do that?”

She laughed. “I can do what I like, since it was Ezra who found it in Dresden. I was keeping it for myself but there were so many, over three hundred of them, that I simply forgot about this one until recently.” 

“I could play it as an encore at the fundraiser,” he said, with a glint in his eyes.

“You’ll have to rehearse it on your own,” she replied. “Do you have a piano?”

“Yes, he does,” I chimed in.

Elio grinned and thanked her profusely.

Olga told us where to find the manuscript of the sonata - which evidently she’d already decided that she was gonna give to Elio – and then she made it clear that she needed to rest. We made sure she was comfortable and I told her that I would get in touch soon, then we left.

 

It was just gone six when we found ourselves in the same spot where Elio had bitten me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t do that again,” he said, with a half-smile, “At least not in public.”

I recalled Olga’s advice and decided that I should try my best to follow it.

“I meant it when I told you that I liked it,” I replied. “It wasn’t coded language or an excuse to appease you.”

He squeezed my wrist and then my hand. “I liked it too,” he whispered.

 

I feared that Elio might be too tired to pack his bags there and then, and I was prepared to wait until he felt up to it; I didn’t want to force him into anything he wasn’t ready for. I hadn’t considered how hyper he could be when he was in the throes of enthusiasm. He was eager to try the lost sonata on the piano and the only instrument he could lay his hands on at that hour on a Sunday evening was the one in my Palazzo.

“I will only pack a suitcase and return for the rest,” he said. I suggested that I’d wait for him at Bar Felice, the _osteria_ where I’d taken him the night I’d seen him perform at La Fenice.

Signora Clelia was as impenetrable as usual when she served me.

I smoked a cigarette and thought about Larry the painter and his boyfriend: would Elio want to keep our relationship a secret? He clearly had not been keen on having me back at the _pensione_ in case Vendetta or any of his other friends had concluded that we were together.

He came back carrying a large duffle bag which he dropped on the floor with a pained sigh. I made a face and ordered another glass of wine. He took a long sip from it, and since we were both starving, we had some fried squid and artichoke hearts.

“What will you tell the Lamberts?” he asked me, as we waited for our food.

“I don’t have to say a thing,” I replied, “Emilia will do it for me. Rose was waiting for someone to play the piano. It’s only being used when they have parties.”

He nodded but his mind was elsewhere.

“It was interesting to know about Renata Borgatti,” he said, “I forgot how old Olga is. She knew Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald for god’s sakes.”

“It’s astonishing,” I agreed, “And those letters were so exciting.  There was so much genuine passion in them.”

“You should translate that Meleager,” he said, “Or write about your Greek philosophers again.”

“We’ll see,” I replied, thanking gloomy Clelia when she brought us our dinner.

It was then that Elio took off his coat and I saw what he was wearing underneath it.

“You’ve changed,” I murmured, admiring the way my sweater slid down Elio’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he replied, biting his lower lip, “Yes, I have.”


	16. Faraway So Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Troubled waters ahead...
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> Thanks so much for your support. Your feedback means the world to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not making stuff up: Ralph Curtis really was obsessed with the Moon landings and asked people for a print of their big toes.

I opened the door of the salottino and switched the lights on. The ceiling, with its intricate arabesques and medallions, captured Elio’s attention only until he caught sight of the piano.

“A Bechstein,” he exclaimed, caressing the shiny black surface, “That’s my absolute favourite. Debussy believed that piano music should only be written for the Bechstein.”

He sat on the piano stool and played a few bars of the piece he’d rehearsed with Olga.

“It’s in perfect shape,” he marvelled.

“I told you that Rose takes care of it,” I replied.

“Are you sure she won’t mind me being here?”

“On the contrary: she will love having a musician in her palazzo.”

Elio gazed at me, at the instrument, at the duffle bag on the floor then at me again.

I sighed, feigning annoyance.

“You are not asking me to unpack your things while you stay here and practise some more, I hope.”

He blushed and his eyelids fluttered.

“No, no,” he quickly replied, “I will do it, but if you could just---,” he unzipped the bag and extracted a thick folder from it.

“I’ll leave it in your room,” I said, smiling. “And you can stay here as long as you like.”

“Are you sure? I won’t be too late anyway, since I have work tomorrow.”

“This is your home, you don’t have to ask my permission,” I told him, and left him to his own devices.

 

About an hour later, I brought him a jug of orange juice and found him among the organised chaos that was so typical of Elio: papers scattered all over the floor and he, sitting cross-legged on the Tabriz rug – which ironically was called the Four Seasons, like Vivaldi’s most famous work – scribbling away on a notepad. His hair was shielding most of his face, his back was hunched and one of his shoulders was bare and white as milk.

I cleared my throat in order not to scare him, since he hadn’t heard me come in.

He looked up from under a mass of curls and smiled. It was a happy, almost childish grin, such as I had not seen from him since our summer together.

“How did you guess that I was thirsty?”

I placed the tray on a side table and sat on the upholstered armchair close to it.

“Expediency,” I replied, “I wanted to see how you were getting along.”

With the windows shut, you couldn’t hear anything, not even music, coming from the upper floors.

“Very well,” he said, “I still can’t believe that nobody has ever played this sonata and that I’m the first to transcribe it for another instrument.”

He rose to his feet and I noticed that he was wearing striped socks, yellow and black.

He perched on the armrest of my chair and I handed him his glass. He was close enough that I could smell the sweat from his armpits, and he was so hyper he probably didn’t realise he was inches from sliding down and on to my lap.

“Olga is so different from anyone I’ve ever met,” he went on, after swallowing a mouthful of juice, “Dad’s dinner drudges were always---” he shook his head, “either too argumentative or the silent and superior type. She’s direct and without vanity.”

“Not entirely,” I argued, “She was wearing a Balenciaga dress.”

Elio frowned. From up close, I noticed the fine down of dark hairs on his upper lip. I wanted to lick it with the tip of my tongue.

“I didn’t know you were into high fashion,” he said, in a more subdued tone, “Your wife?”

I chuckled. “Well, you clearly are not or you’d know that it was a 1930s model,” I replied. “My great-aunt had a similar one and she was very proud of it, and Olga must be too since she wore it to pose for her portrait.”

“Nothing gets past you,” he joked.

“Like the fact that you are finally growing a moustache,” I noted. “I’m impressed.”

His hand went to his lips and the sudden gesture, combined with the fact that his other hand was still holding the glass, made him lose his balance. He uttered a little shriek and a second later I had a lapful of Elio.

“Wow, sorry, I’m going to,” he muttered, writhing like a displeased cat, thus making the situation worse. I took the glass from his hand and set it on the floor; in order to do this, I had to push my pelvis up a fraction, so that my groin pressed more firmly into his ass. He tried to get up, but I had my arm around his torso.

“Stay here a moment,” I whispered, my lips on his sweater- my sweater.

“Yes,” he murmured, and by mutual, unspoken consent, we didn’t say another word. Speaking would have complicated matters, I decided, since I was committed to never lie again to Elio, not even with half-truths and convenient denials.

I wasted no time in freeing more of his shoulder from the sweater’s collar, kissing and licking every inch of skin until I had reclaimed it as mine. I became aware that he was stroking my hair, scratching my scalp with increasing force.

Minutes later, he cupped my cheek and forced me to look up into his face. By then I was burning and hard as rock. His eyed were hooded and his lips were the colour of pomegranate.

“You taste so good,” I rasped, trailing my fingers over the skin I’d reddened with my evening stubble.

He giggled. “You should have shaved,” he said.

“Would you like me to?” I asked. My hand was still on his shoulder, dark and coarse in comparison.

Elio pondered my question then shook his head, slowly. It could have been taken as a rejection if he hadn’t added, “You were smooth back then.”

I pressed a kiss to his collarbone and he let out a tiny sigh.

“It’s going to be different, this time,” I said, “I won’t hide anything from you.”

I felt him tense up and understood that he needed to be left alone for a while.

“If you want wine or beer, help yourself,” I told him. “I’m off to bed. Clean towels in the closet outside the bathroom.”

He wished me goodnight and hugged me as though he was apologizing for letting me go to bed alone.

 

The next few days, I hardly saw him: between the teaching, rehearsing and preparing his lessons, he was seldom at home. Sometimes, he would stay out till late and be gone before I got up. When I managed to speak to him, he’d tell me about his musician friends, about his students and he informed about the progress he was making with Olga’s sonata.

On the Thursday after he’d moved in, I received a visit from a man named Daniel Curtis.

I had told Rudy that I’d decided to help Olga and he’d promised he would find me a lawyer who wasn’t based in Venice. When Daniel introduced himself, I assumed he was the person in question.

“A lawyer?” he laughed, “My family would love that.”

He noticed that I was perplexed and he explained, “We own Palazzo Barbaro, where Henry James used to live when he came to Venice. Rudy told me about you and since I’ve just returned from your neck of the woods, I thought I’d come and have a chat.”

He had been to Miami with some friends, he said, and had returned in time for Carnival. He was tall, curly haired and had a very white smile, which was enhanced by his tanned skin. I judged that he must have been my age or slightly older.  It was almost dinner time, so I offered him an aperitif. While we sipped our Camparis, we spoke about the fundraiser.

“Rudy knows that I’m always willing to help, but in this case I’m late to the party, quite literally.”

“Are you a musician?”

“Wrong again,” he replied. “I’m a man of leisure or, like my sister prefer to call me, a slacker.”

I confessed that I was one too, at least for the time being. That put him more at ease and he told me about his family and his mad brother, who liked to re-enact the Apollo Moon landings.

“He’s certifiable,” he insisted, “When people contact him asking to visit the Palazzo, he writes back asking for a print of their big toes. He wrote to your President about his plan for nuclear disarmament, which he calls the Barbaro Project.”

“You are making this up,” I said, as we drank our second Camparis.

“I swear it’s the truth and nothing but,” he replied, making the sign of the cross over his heart. “I’ll introduce you to Ralph, but you’ll have to give us your toe print.”

It was at this point that Elio came into the living room, earlier than I expected.

“What’s this about your toes?” he enquired, gazing at Daniel, who was comfortably spread out on the couch. Daniel smiled at him and introduced himself.

“Oliver will explain,” he said, “I have to go now, but I’d love if you could come to dinner tomorrow evening. Third floor, eight o’clock, dress casual.”

He stood up and left before either of us could reply.

“You’re early,” I remarked, while Elio removed his coat, scarf and gloves.

“Sorry for butting in like that,” he said, “If you’d told me, I’d have---”

“I had no idea he was coming. He’s one of Rudy’s friends.”

Elio rolled his eyes. “Who isn’t? Anyway, I cannot accept the invitation because I’ll be rehearsing till late.”

I hid my disappointment, because Elio was working hard and doing what he liked best. I had procured him that opportunity and he was making the most of it.

“You should go,” he went on. “It seemed like you were having fun.”

“He was telling me about his mad brother,” I tried to explain, but Elio was tired and wanted a hot shower, so I told him to go and that we’d speak later.

I prepared dinner and wondered why we were drifting farther apart now that we were living under the same roof.

 

That Friday would always be remembered as one of the lowest and highest points in our relationship.

I went to Palazzo Barbaro to have dinner with Daniel, which turned out to be a crowded affair. I met several interesting people, ate, drank, and played cards with a couple of glass-blowers and a gondolier named Triste, the Italian for sad.

Daniel put me in a water-taxi at one in the morning and I was home ten minutes later.

The apartment was in darkness when I got in, so I assumed that Elio had gone to sleep. I switched on the lights in the living room and found him there, waiting for me.

“I can smell the wine from here,” he said, scratching the inside of his wrist.

“It was a dinner, so yes,” I replied, anger already boiling below the surface.

“Did you take off your shoes?”

I blinked at him, “What, why would you ask?”

“He said he wanted to see your toes, yesterday.”

“That’s not what he said.”

“I’m not deaf, I heard him, and that’s what he said.”

I needed to piss and I was getting close to bursting in more ways than one. I made to leave the room and he jumped up and grabbed me; his fingers dug into my upper arm like claws.

“You are not walking away from me,” he hissed.

“Let me go,” I hissed back.

“You promised you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Let. Me. Go,” I said, glaring at him.

“You fucking bastard,” he spat out, and pushed me hard. I was a bit tipsy and very upset so I lost my balance and nearly fell down. He tried to say something, but I was gone before I could lash out.

I took my time washing my hands and splashing water on my face, and when I opened the bathroom door to get out, Elio was waiting outside, his face wet with tears.

“I’m so scared,” he said, “I don’t know why I feel like this.”

He was trembling and his breathing was fast and shallow. I guided him to his bedroom and lay him down on the bed.

“You’re working too hard,” I said, as I stroked his back and his hair.

“You must regret having me here,” he murmured, and I thought I understood what he’d been driving at: he’d tried to push me into leaving him again. It was a familiar dynamic he fell into when it came to me and I had overlooked the possibility that it might happen again.

“I will never regret being close to you,” I replied, caressing his face. “Because I love you, Elio, so much I could not be without you again."


	17. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story earns its explicit rating ;)
> 
> Oliver's POV

The moment the words were out of my mouth, Elio sprang out of bed and ran out of the room. I heard the bathroom door being shut and I stayed put. Maybe it had not been good timing, but I was tired of second-guessing and calculations.

I undressed down to my boxers and sat on the bed, my back against the headboard, waiting for him to return. I had switched off the main light and left the bedside lamp on. It had a purple shade which diffused a warm orange hue.

Elio came in, clearly expecting to find me gone.

“You okay?” I asked.

He had washed his face and the curls on his forehead were wet and limp.

“Yes,” he replied, side-eyeing me while he removed his socks and threw them on top of a small mound of discarded garments. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he went on, “Anyway tomorrow I will practise here on the piano, so I can take it easy.”

“Good idea,” I said, feeling as though my confession to him had been only a dream. I did not intend to get out of the room until I’d explained the conversation with Daniel. Elio, however, didn’t want to undress in my presence; that much was obvious.

“Sit here,” I said, patting the bed. He complied, but was still avoiding my gaze.

“Let me tell you what the toes story was about.”

Before he could stop me, I quickly explained about Ralph Curtis and his Barbaro Project. At first, Elio didn’t believe me, but then he started asking questions and soon we were laughing about the whole thing. He had been getting closer and was now next to me, his arm brushing mine every time he spoke or giggled.

I was no longer drunk, just pleasantly warm and fuzzy.

“I want to meet him,” he declared, “We’ll go together and I will take the print of your big toe.”

“I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it,” I murmured.

The innuendo hung in the air between us.

“What you said before, I don’t know if I can---”

He broke off and wouldn’t go on, and I saw that he was staring at my chest and licking his lips.

“Let’s not talk,” I said, taking his hand in mine and placing it on my stomach.

I had expected either rejection or soft, shy caresses, but Elio was – as always – unpredictable. He rolled off the bed and removed his sweater and t-shirt, while I vainly tried to get my dick to behave.

He swore loudly when his Star of David got tangled in his hair, and it was then that I found out that he still had it. It made me even warmer inside and my dick refused to stand down. He noticed it, as it was poking out of the slit in my underwear, and made a noise deep in his throat.

“What was that?” I enquired, smiling.

“Fucking monster,” he muttered, “No wonder I couldn’t ride my bike the morning after you stuck that rod in me.”

“You did, more than once,” I argued, as I gave myself a squeeze.

Elio kept his jeans on but removed his belt and undid its top button; he climbed on the bed and straddled me, sitting back on my thighs.

“I only want to be close to you,” he said, as he played with my hair. He was fully aware of what it did to me, but I was willing to be tortured for the rest of the night, and much longer, if it meant having Elio on top of me.

“Am I allowed to touch?”

“Above the belt,” he replied, and I immediately put my hands on his back, stroking it with the satisfaction of thirst being slaked. We explored each other like this for a while: he raked his fingers through my hair while I caressed his naked skin until it was pink and blotchy.

My erection had subsided a little, and I was content to let it simmer, when Elio, out of the blue, ducked his head and bit the underside of my chin. It wasn’t a sharp bite, more like a nip, but it went straight to my balls.

He didn’t ask me if it was okay, but I’d repeatedly told him that I’d liked it the first time he's done it.

I moaned and he decorated my throat with the marks of his teeth; nothing that would leave a trace, at least until he got to my collarbones.

At this point, I was holding on to his waist for dear life.

“How are you still so fucking beautiful,” he growled, and sank his teeth into the meat of my shoulder. I arched my back, offering him more of me. He clutched my upper arms for leverage and placed an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss on my left nipple. I had only time to enjoy the slickness of his tongue when he wrapped his lips around it, with teasing the tip with his teeth. I brought my hand to the back of his neck and pressed his head down, but that made him stop.

“Please, please,” I found myself pleading, but it was only when I removed my hand that he continued. To punish me, maybe, he sucked on it hard then bit on it harder still, until I screamed.

He sat up and wiped his mouth, staring at me with wild eyes. I was so hard I was leaking all over my belly. His eyes were drawn to the sticky pool in my navel, and for a crazy instant, I believed he would use his teeth on my cock.

Instead, he dipped his forefinger in it and asked me a silent question. We’d done all that before, so I was careful to phrase my answer differently.

“I got tested a month ago and had no sex for ages,” I rasped.

He snorted a giggle. “Ages, what does it mean in Oliver-speak?”

All the while, I was cupping my crotch and did not pay attention to his and to the fact that he was now kneeling between my legs.

“Can’t think,” I moaned, wrapping my free hand around his neck and thumbing at his Adam’s apple. “Over a year, don’t know.” It had not been memorable, not a patch on what Elio could do – and had done - to me.

He put the slicked finger in his mouth and made a humming sound.

“What a bloody waste,” he murmured, and with a fierce smirk, pulled down my underwear, forcing me to tilt my pelvis up. I somehow got rid of my boxers and had Elio’s mouth on me in no time. He seemed to be everywhere: fingering my balls, licking and biting my inner thighs, sucking on my cock. I let go of all restraints and begged without dignity. I wanted him, wanted my come in his mouth and down his throat, I babbled, between cries and whimpers.

He had become even better at sucking dick, and I was sure that I would get jealous later, when I was able to think again.

In the end, I shot my load while he was working me with both hands. “Look at me,” he ordered, and I did, and came while his eyes burned into me.

 

He went to the bathroom to fetch a towel, but took his time to come back.

When he did, his cheeks were flushed.

“You could have done it here,” I murmured, as I cleaned myself up.

“I know,” he said, admiring the marks he’d left on my torso. “It’s just that you are so,” he waved his hand at me, “Perfect, and I---”

“I’m not perfect,” I argued. “I’m too hairy, for one.”

Elio did a double take and put his hand on my sternum, spreading his fingers.

“You are not,” he exclaimed, evidently offended on behalf of my follicles, “If you only knew the dirty thoughts I had because of this,” he tugged at my chest hair.

“I prefer your smoothness,” I replied, placing a kiss on the spot above his nipple.

“Babyish,” he grimaced. “Unfinished.”

I pulled him to me and held him in my arms, marvelling that I was allowed to do that.  It would be no use telling him that he was a work of art, the personification of unattainable grace and loveliness.

“We don’t have to be perfect,” I said, kissing his temple, “I’ve never met anyone I’ve wanted half as much as I want you.”

He wriggled to get away but I didn’t let him.

“Yes, I know, I have made some awful mistakes, but you are not the only one to get scared. I told you, I was terrified of what you meant to me. The horrible things people could say behind our back, and you not even eighteen. I ran away and what it did to you will always haunt me. I want to make amends, if you’ll let me.”

He had relaxed again, so I did too.

I was getting sleepy and I very much wished to sleep in his bed, or for him to come to mine.

“I’m not sure that I can trust you yet,” he replied, sounding small and serious.

“Fair enough,” I said, “But please don’t assume stuff like you did with Daniel. Talk to me, if you want to know what’s going on.”

I felt him nod his head.

“I should have, I know,” he murmured, “He’s the right age for you, and you were having a good time, and we are only friends, after all.”

I chuckled. “We are never going to be only friends, Elio, and you know that! The first chance you got, you sucked on my neck and I nearly came in my pants.”

He laughed. “You’re too old for that.”

“Not when you are around, I am not.”

We stayed silent for a moment then he raised his head to look into my eyes.

“I need time to figure things out,” he said, “Are you willing to wait?”

I told him he could take all the time he needed, that I could go without sex as long as he was thinking of me.

He grinned. “Sex is on the table,” he replied, licking my earlobe. “You don’t get to decide when or how, though.”

“Could it be _on_ the actual table?” I quipped, and earned myself another bite.

I could definitely work with that.

 

After that conversation, I imagined Elio wanted me gone, so I gathered up my clothes from the chair on which I’d left them. I bent down to pick up my shoes when Elio swore at me.

“Christ’s sake, Oliver,” he spat out.

“What, am I being too noisy?”

He was rubbing his eyes and uttering more profanities.

“No, you are not being _too noisy_ ,” he replied, in a sing-song tone. “What you are is too fucking naked. Your ass was in my face.

I smirked at him. “Don’t you like it?”

“Put your boxers on and come back to bed,” he replied, “And don’t get any ideas. I am wearing my old pyjamas and my feet are cold.”

“How cold can they be, you were hot not long ago,” I leered, and he rolled his eyes.

I put my underwear on and slipped under the covers. Immediately, his feet sought mine.

“Jesus, they are like blocks of ice,” I moaned.

“I did warn you,” he replied, chuckling. “That’s why I wear woollen socks. I would wear them in bed too, but I got you instead.”

“That’s why you like me hairy,” I joked, rubbing our feet together.

“Now switch off the light, I want to sleep,” he said.

“Anything else you need?” I asked, while I reached out to turn the lamp off.

“You could scratch under my shoulder blade,” he replied, “It’s itchy.”

He guided me to the spot in question and I scratched it while he made soft purring noises. When that was done, he yawned and lay down on his side. I spooned him, tentatively, and he leaned back into me.

“’night,” he murmured.

I hadn’t been that happy in years.


	18. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio is being a bit of a tease, to be honest....
> 
> Oliver's POV

I opened my eyes and was puzzled for a second, no longer used as I was to being in bed with another person. Elio had barely moved, aside from pulling the covers up to his nose. The back of his neck was inches from my mouth and I pursed my lips to kiss it, but stopped at the last second: kissing had not happened yet, I told myself. Not in a way that gave me permission to touch him when he wasn’t aware of it.

I stared at his nape, tender yet strong, as it had not been at seventeen; the doe-like grace had developed into a nervous elegance which I adored. The tantrums of his adolescence had morphed into black moods and I wanted to be the one he unleashed them on. Not because I took pleasure in being a victim, or in paying for my past sins - although I _did_ have to atone - but for the much simpler reason that I’d missed enough of Elio’s life and intended to be present for the rest of it.

“I can hear your eyelashes scratching the pillow,” he muttered.

“What other superpowers do you have?” I asked.

He rolled over, wrapping the covers around him like a bleary-eyed mummy.

“Deadly morning breath,” he replied, and opened his mouth to prove his point.

I sniffed the air and pretended to drop dead. He giggled and sneezed.

“You okay?” I asked, worried that he might have caught a cold.

“It’s the change in temperature,” he replied, and went on explaining, “I was under the blankets and you’ve made me come out.”

“You do not look _out_ ,” I argued. “I cannot see your chin.”

He squinted and sneezed again. I had not been with him in the winter, so I had never experienced this version of him.

“Maybe I should sleep alone,” he said, “I’m horrible when I’m cold.”

The room was warming up as the central heating had kicked in.

“I could get you an electric heater,” I suggested.

There was a hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Is that coded language?” he asked.

I smiled back. “I told you already that I never speak in code.”

He moved closer, wriggling like a very pretty worm.

“You can hold me if you can unwrap me,” he said.

I spent the next minutes doing just that, with no cooperation from Elio who, in between sneezes, was giggling hoarsely and commenting on the bruises he’d left on my skin.  The top of his pyjama was unbuttoned to uncover the hollow dip between his nipples. I held his gaze as I licked it. I felt him shiver and contract his abdominal muscles. I stopped.

“Here,” I whispered, and gathered him up like a wounded child. He wrapped his arms and legs around me, and murmured words of apology. I stroked his back and scratched his scalp with only a hint of fingernails. It was all cosy and domestic; inoffensive. That is, until he grew hard against my lower belly; the worn fabric of his bottoms was damp where he’d been leaking and as Elio ground down on me, the scent of sweat and male sex worked their magic. I was erect too, and poking out of my underwear. 

“Is this okay?” I husked, my hand already on the waistband of his pants.

He nodded, and moaned when I bared his ass and squeezed it with all ten fingers.

There was a slightly clumsy manoeuvring, after which I was naked and he had his penis out and slotted alongside mine.

“Gonna come,” he said in a strangled voice, as soon as I started fisting our dicks together. He was being literal: a moment later, he had shot his load on my chest, a marvel which never ceased to make me pant with desire. When I finally came too, the spray nearly hit my lips.

It took me a while to realise that Elio was too quiet, and that he was stroking my cheekbones with a sort of compassionate tenderness. I had the nasty doubt that he’d done it to make me happy, that’s he’d hated it.

I cleaned him and covered him up again.

It was with his face buried in my neck that he told me.

“It’s been like that for a while,” he confessed. “Not being able to last... or to stay hard. Not so much of that when I am with you,” he sniggered. “Not that at all, in fact.”

That had been an issue for me too, but it wasn’t a competition and we weren’t discussing me. And yet, in a way, we were.

“You spoke of my healthy libido,” I said, while he mouthed at my throat, “But it wasn’t that healthy or much of a libido for a long time.”

“What, you don’t have to---” he mumbled.

Brutality is sometimes the only choice.

“I couldn’t get it up because, as it turns out, I am gay and can’t sleep with women.  It wasn’t always the case, of course, or maybe it was but I could still pretend. Now I can’t and won’t.”

Elio raised his head and stared at me.

“What if I can’t give you what you need?” he asked, coolly.

“Did you like what we just did?”

He nodded, a half-smile on his lips.

“I need to hear it,” I insisted.

“Yes,” he replied, “Yes, yes, yes.”

I laughed, and a weight lifted off my heart.

“That’s all that matters,” I said, “And if you say stop, I will, I _always_ will.”

He tousled my hair and nuzzled my jaw.

“Don’t stop, never stop,” he whispered.

 

I was frying eggs when the phone rang. Elio hated the telephone so he took care of the food while I answered the call.

It was Rudy, with the name and address of the lawyer.

“Her name’s Arezzo,” he said.

Italians with names of cities were often of Jewish heritage, and Cristina Arezzo – who was in fact from Verona – owned an apartment in Campo Ghetto Nuovo.

“Did you mention Ezra Pound to her?” I asked him.

He chuckled. “She’s intrigued, just like you,” he replied, and went on explaining that she wasn’t well known in Venice since she did not live, or work, here. Rudy only found out of her existence because she had contributed to Save Venice and he’d met her at a cocktail party he’d organised in Verona. Since she was spending the week-end in the city, she would be willing to see me that afternoon.

“Who was it?” asked Elio. He was squeezing oranges and the tip of his tongue was trapped between his lips.

I told him about the lawyer and he pouted.

“Do you never wonder why Rudy is so keen to help you?”

“Because he’s my friend,” I replied, as I sliced the bread. “And he enjoys solving problems, like you enjoy music and being a drama queen.”

He stuck out his tongue and poured the juice into two glasses.

It was heaven to sit there with him and chat of everything and nothing, consuming our late breakfast without having to hurry or fear that it was the last that we'd share.

 

Cristina Arezzo had a way of getting straight to the point which I found refreshing in one of her profession.

“It’s a fairly straightforward contract,” she said, “I can have the documents sent over to you by courier on Monday. You and Ms Rudge will have to sign them and I will take care of the notary. Italian bureaucracy is infamous, but if you have money you can pay someone else to suffer on your behalf.”

Her dark eyes twinkled.

“I suppose the location of the warehouse has to be mentioned in the contract,” I said, “And I haven’t found one yet.”

“Rudy mentioned that you want to keep this a secret.”

“Well, let’s say that there are reasons why it should not be divulged.”

She smiled. “I deal with inheritance disputes all the time, you can’t imagine the horrors I have witnessed.”  She arched her thick eyebrows. “As for your warehouse, maybe I can help. The Jewish Museum has recently vacated the premises of what once was the Jewish Music Academy. They kept some of their artefacts there while their building was being refurbished. I dealt with that contract and the rent is quite modest for Venice.” She named a figure and I agreed that it was reasonable.

“I could show it to you,” she said, “I still have a set of keys.”

The building was in the Ghetto Vecchio, the Old Ghetto, and the premises in question were on the first floor: it was a vast salon, well insulated and with expensive double glazing on the windows.

“It’s perfect,” I commented, “But won’t the owners gossip?”

“No one needs to know,” she replied, “I can tell them it’s a private client and as long as I am satisfied and the rent is paid on time, they won’t care. I will hint that you are Jewish and that will clinch it, as far as they are concerned.”

I remarked that there was supreme irony in that arrangement and she laughed. “I would lie, if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind. An anti-Semite’s legacy preserved in a Jewish Ghetto: what delicious karma.”

 

I went shopping for groceries and when I arrived home, I found Elio in animated conversation with my landlady.

Rose was – like I had predicted – ecstatic that the piano was being played and she was already making plans for future parties.

“I adore Bach,” she was saying, “But I have a special fondness for the Italians: the Scarlattis, Monteverdi, Corelli. It’s a kind of acquired patriotism, I suppose.”

She gazed at me and smiled widely. I liked her even more in that moment, as she tried to convey her acceptance of the situation, her happiness at having an additional artist in the house, regardless of his sexuality. Her husband was maybe less of a free spirit, but as a historian he regarded everything as a passing fad, including bigotry.

She invited us to dinner and I let Elio decide.

“He’s been working hard all week,” I said, but he protested that he wasn’t tired and that he was looking forward to meeting Peter.

After Rose left, I hugged him and told him about my meeting with the lawyer.

“You liked her,” he observed, as he helped me put away the groceries.

“She was easy to talk to, unlike most lawyers I’ve met.”

The question of my divorce was left unspoken, but it was obvious that we were both thinking about it.  I changed the subject, steering the conversation towards the Lamberts.

“If you prefer going out with your friends, I won’t mind,” I said, truthfully. “You love dancing and I’m a disaster at it, so feel free to go without me.”

Elio banged the door of the cupboard.

“You are not _allowing_ me,” he said, “We are not married. If I wanted to go out dancing or simply meeting my friends, I would not ask for your permission.”

He was right, of course, but the way he’d said it had hurt me. I swallowed the pain down and smiled.

“That’s not what I meant,” I replied. “Only that you don’t have to mind me, but clearly you knew that already.”

“Look, I told you what I needed and you said it was fine.”

“It is,” I said, “As long as you don’t treat me like an enemy every time you feel like it.”

We glared at each other. I was the first to cave in, saying that I needed a hot bath. I walked out of the kitchen with a bottle of chilled white and a glass in tow.

 

Twenty minutes later, I was soaking in a tub full of sandalwood-scented bubbles, and sipping my second glass of wine. Reality didn’t seem half as bad from that perspective: I had money, health, friends and I was sharing a Venetian apartment with the man I loved. No one ever said love was going to be easy; in fact, the older one got the more complicated it all became. I chuckled at my philosophical clichés and heard the door open.

“I need to piss,” Elio announced.

“Be my guest,” I said, lying back and closing my eyes. I kept them shut as he relieved himself, listening to the sounds he made and trying not to remember the past.

“I’m done, you can open your eyes,” he said. I did, and saw that he was standing at the foot of the tub, hesitating.

“It’s large enough for two,” I suggested.

He snorted, “Not with you inside.”

I started to get out and he shook his head.

“Stay,” he said, “Please, just stay.”

 


	19. Wicked Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get to know a little bit more about Elio's feelings.
> 
> Elio's POV
> 
> Next: someone's going to get it... or both...

I didn’t know why I was fighting with Oliver; anything could get me going: a casual comment, a misplaced smile, his excessive caution; a polite gesture - like shutting his eyes while I was pissing - made my hackles rise more than a slap in the face.

We had sampled true intimacy, the two of us, drank from that cup until it was dry, and now we were pretending it had never happened.

The worst of it was that it was my fault and no matter how patient Oliver was, he could not turn back the clock. There were moments when I forgot that we’d been apart from years, and others when it was as though Oliver was another person altogether, my ex lover’s older, more dependable brother.  The tiny lines at the corner of his eyes had not been there back then; he was hairier and his smell was more pungent, more masculine. I was – if humanly possible – even more attracted to him.

 

And then there was the matter of his dick.

One of my ex boyfriends, one I had managed to keep for more than a month, had joked that I was a bottomless bottom. He had been smiling as he’d said it, but I had not been fooled. I was always asking for more, more, harder, deeper, and more, but what I missed was that sensation of fullness only Oliver’s cock could provide.

It wasn’t only his size: I could have - and did – found someone as well endowed. He had shaped me from the inside, so that I was like Cinderella with the shoe: other men could try, but they would never be the perfect fit.

That was another source of bitterness, so I chose to deny myself. Up to a certain point, I could do that; but I had not been able to resist sucking and stroking it and it had required a supreme effort not to let it come inside my mouth.

Resistance was futile, I realised that, and yet a part of me couldn’t bear to give in.

 

I climbed inside the tub, sitting at the opposite end, between Oliver’s feet.

He’d added more hot water and bath oil to the mix and had handed me his glass of wine.

“Drink,” he said, “It will loosen up your muscles.”

My toes brushed the underside of his thighs; if I flexed them, I could maybe reach... something else. I chugged the wine so fast that some of it trickled down my chin.

Oliver’s tufted nipples were decorated with frothy bubbles and his collarbones and neck were wet and flushed. I tried to focus on his hair, which was sticking to his skull like a shiny cap.

I checked whether he was gazing at the scars on my forearm, but his eyes were shut again and his nostrils flared. He was nervous, perhaps even more than I’d been a moment ago. I set the glass on the floor and in order to do that, my ass slid to the side and bumped against his foot.

“Sorry,” he murmured, and shifted, but I was quicker and grabbed his ankle.

“Let’s see that big toe,” I said, pulling his foot up, “Since I’ll have to take a print of it, I better make sure it’s all fine.”

As I pretended to examine it, I recalled what I’d done during our first night together, and was gripped by the sudden need to do it again.

I darted a quick glance at him and caught him staring. It was my turn to close my eyes, which I did at the same time as I sucked on his toe. Dimly aware of what I was doing, I held the foot in my hands and bit-licked his toes, one after the other. I finally opened my eyes and through the haze of my own lust, I saw that Oliver was coming undone.

“Enjoyed that?” I purred.

It took him a while to reply; he kept blinking and his hands were busy underwater.

“I could reciprocate,” he replied, low and silky. “Or do anything you want.”

“Anything, are you sure?”

He nodded. In a flash, it came to me, what it was that I wanted.

“We will touch each other but we won’t finish,” I said, “We’ll go upstairs to the Lamberts and have dinner; no physical contact, we won’t give the game away.”

“And what happens after dinner?”

He was hoarse already, and I wondered what had come over me to suggest this silly scheme.

“Stop stroking your dick and I’ll tell you.”

“Fuck’s sakes,” he said, but he obeyed.

I was hard too, but at least I’d had part of him inside of me.

“After dinner,” I replied, “we'll use the lubricant which is in the top drawer of your bedside table.”

He stared at me, bug-eyed, and seconds later, he surged up from the foamy water like the god that he was and would always be.

“Where are you going?” I complained, “What about the touching?”

Carefully, he got out of the tub, his semi-hard length swinging in a very enticing way.

“No, sorry, can’t do,” he replied, as he hurriedly put on his robe. He picked up the bottle and the glass and rushed out.

 

We met in the living room, already dressed and ready to go.

Oliver smiled brightly when he saw me: I was wearing black trousers and a black turtleneck with a line of brass buttons down the back.

“You look amazing,” he murmured.

His navy blue suit was not bad either, I replied.

We stood in the middle of the room, facing one another and unable to move.

It was Oliver who broke the deadlock: he sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“I’ll get the champagne,” he said, “Wait for me outside.”

I was as excited as a teenage boy going to a party; as my seventeen-year-old self waiting for midnight.

 

“You shouldn’t have,” Rose exclaimed, as Oliver handed her the bottle of Laurent-Perrier. She lowered her voice to add: “Peter is trying to cut down but he’s not being very successful.”

Her husband, who had been leafing through a hardback tome, seemed far away, but his comment as not as absent-minded.

“I have picked the wrong time of the year,” he said, “It will be easier to abstain over Lent. Rose positively abhors abstinence.”

Mrs Lambert, very pretty in a bottle-green dress that enhanced her copper-blond hair, crinkled her nose.

“I’m not very religious,” she explained, “Life is short and we shouldn’t be renouncing things. What do you think?” she asked me.

It was such a loaded question that I was unsure how to answer it. Oliver did not come to my aid, and I didn’t blame him, considering the way I’d reacted earlier.

“Sometimes,” I hesitated, cleared my throat and continued, “We have to say no, for our health or our peace of mind.”

Peter laughed heartily.

“The boy is wiser than you, _amore_.”

She took his censure in her stride.

“Wisdom is ageing,” she countered. “Like memory. If you wish to be kind to yourself, forget the past.”

We heard the distant clinking of china.

“Dinner’s ready,” announced Peter.

Emilia had been asked to leave the food on a trolley, so that we could help ourselves. There was cream of asparagus, roast chicken and Jerusalem artichokes, pan fried courgettes and stuffed tomatoes: everything was delicious and perfect for that time of year.

The conversation turned to the Giudecca’s secret garden, which - Rose said – she had yet not given up on. Oliver told me about the current owner and his strict ‘no visitors’ policy.

“Did you know that the Princess of Greece lived there too?” Peter asked.

Oliver's eyes shone as he looked at me.

“Yes, and she tried to commit suicide,” I replied.

“Poor woman,” said Rose, “Her father died because a monkey bit him and her husband abandoned her.”

Oliver suppressed a smile, so I looked at him and mimed a bite. He took a sip of water to defuse the situation, but Rose wouldn’t let him get away with it.

“It is funny as well as tragic,” she remarked. “Being bitten by a monkey is an odd way to die for a King. That would be a great Carnival costume.”

“What, the king or the monkey?” I asked.

“Both, I imagine, and the monkey dress would keep you warm, with all that fur.”

Peter chuckled. “Only if you stay on the gondola, my dear,” he said, “The moment you stepped into any Palazzo, you’d be boiling hot.”

Oliver gazed at me. “Elio should have it then,” he said.

“He’s making fun of me because I’m always cold.”

“The central heating is working fine, I hope,” enquired Peter.

I assured him that the apartment was stunning and that my being cold had nothing to do with it.

“We have been invited to a party this Thursday and a reliable source told me you’ll be there too,” said Rose, winking at Oliver, who clearly had no idea what she was referring to.

“Daniel and Patricia Curtis always throw the best Carnival parties,” explained Peter. “It’s been tradition since their great-grandfather’s days.”

“It sounds amazing but I don’t think---” said Oliver.

“Patricia told me you met Daniel,” Rose interjected. “You’ll get a paper invitation on Monday. They’re very traditional about these things.”

“And very unconventional about everything else,” commented her husband.

“Is that true about Ralph Curtis and his Project?” I asked.

Peter poured me and himself some more champagne.

“What isn’t true about Ralph?” he said, smiling. “Once he knocked at our door late at night.... when was it?” he asked his wife, who replied that it had been the summer, a week before they were going to leave for Madeira.

“We thought he was drunk, but no, he was absolutely sober,” Peter recounted, “He had mislaid the keys to his friend’s apartment here in Cannaregio and needed a place to sleep. Of course we invited him in, but when Rose asked why he couldn’t go home, you know what he replied? I don’t have a home – he said – my only possessions are my recordings of the moon landings and my clothes. Friends are more important than things, he said.”

“He may have a point,” said Oliver, evidently moved.

I was about to touch him then I remembered our game.

As we left the dining room to move to the salon, he whispered, “You can’t resist me.”

I could have kicked him, but that was also against the rules.

 

Two more bottles of champagne later, we were back into our apartment.

I was tipsy but just enough to have fun without regrets, while Oliver was strangely serious. I went to my bedroom to take off my shoes and when I returned I found that Oliver had put on some jazz music, volume turned low so that we could talk.

He had removed his jacket, socks and shoes, and was sitting on the sofa, staring ahead of him.

“You alright?” I asked, as I slumped down next to him.

He hummed. A few seconds later, he said, “I don’t want it to be a game. That night in Rome, I didn’t like it, just so you know. I didn’t say it, at the time, because you were having so much fun and I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”

“Wait, what didn’t you like?” I was surprised, and not in a good way. “Was it the finger up your ass or the being all over you when we got back to the hotel? Was I too dominant for you?”

He snorted, and I got even angrier. “You find it funny that I might desire to dominate you?”

“Will you just shut up?” he hissed. “I loved the sex, all of it, but I didn’t enjoy you flirting with other people and kissing them on the lips. You were young and I was going to leave soon: I had no right to ask for anything.”

“It was nothing,” I said, “No one mattered, only you.”

His hand was curled around my neck, his thumb stroking my throat.

“Things are different now,” he murmured. “I can ask and I will ask.”

“What are you asking?” I whispered, as I undid the buttons of his shirt.

“I want you to be only mine,” he replied, softly.

My hand travelled down and slid between his legs. He took the hint and opened them wide. I found what I was searching for and pressed my middle finger to it.

“All mine,” I said, and couldn’t wait a second longer to belong to him again.


	20. Primae Noctis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they do the deed.
> 
> Seriously, this is just smut and fluff with absolutely zero plot.  
> Enjoy
> 
> POVs: Elio/Oliver/Elio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so very much for your constant support: without readers there would be no writers.

Impatiently, I had tried to drag Oliver in the direction of his bedroom, but he’d insisted I waited for him there while he went to _prepare_ himself.

I was undressing and thinking of him, not his body or his smell, but the way he’d looked at me when we’d spoken of Rome, the hurt in his eyes when he’d accused me of flirting with other people; I had not realised back then, not even suspected that he might have felt that way; on the contrary, I’d always believed that he’d enjoyed the ambiguity, that grey area of desire where anything goes provided the participants are consenting adults. Oliver had been jealous and I had not seen it; I had been too busy squeezing Amanda’s – or was it Ada’s? – hand, and basking in the pleasure of being young, healthy and in love. That is why he’d not wanted us to go to that book reading: he hadn’t been ashamed of me, no; he’d been afraid to squander our intimacy, and maybe we had, a little, and it had been my fault.

I had to tell him that he’d been wrong, so I went to the bathroom and opened the door without knocking.

“Give me a second,” he muttered, but I was already standing behind him. He rinsed his mouth and our gazes met in the mirror: his was wary and mine anxious.

“If you’ve changed your mind,” he started, and I found that my throat was too tight for speech. I hugged him from behind and he leaned into me.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled into his t-shirt.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he replied. “I can wait for as long as it takes.”

I laughed, and he turned round to look at me.

“It’s about Rome,” I explained. “I was selfish and childish.”

“You were enchanting that night,” he said, smiling, “You had every reason to indulge.”

I swayed my hips. “Only that night?” I asked.

“More and more each night,” he answered, stroking my waist with his thumbs.

We stared at each other for a moment.

“Are you _prepared_?” I enquired, as one of my hands cupped the curve of his ass.

He laughed. “Very subtle,” he joked.

“Didn’t mean to be,” I argued, sensing that the mood was about to shift again. The blue of his eyes was darkening. “Maybe next time I’ll do it for you.” My middle finger traced the furrow between his buttocks, and I wanted him naked and wet.

“Tease,” he husked, and to contradict him, I went down on my knees taking his underpants off in the same motion. He swore and buried his hands in my hair, without forcing me, but I was already licking up his dick, which went fully hard beneath my tongue. I held it in my fist and lolled my tongue over his balls, dribbling and making slurping noises while Oliver called my name.

“Wait, wait,” he choked out, after a while. I stopped, and he pulled me up and into his arms. “Fucking menace,” he chuckled. I could barely stand for how hard I was, and he was in no better condition.

Somehow, we made it to his bedroom and fell onto the bed, laughing.

“I missed this,” he said, “more than anything.”

He traced the outline of my lips with his forefinger. I knew what he wanted but I wasn’t sure I could recover if I let him kiss me only to wake up and find him gone, again.

I sucked the digit inside my mouth then guided his hand to my crotch.

“You sure?” he asked, and in reply, I raised my hips off the bed. “Take them off,” I demanded, and he made quick work of it, uttering his ‘off and off and off,” with a knowing smirk. I tugged his hair and he nuzzled the crease of my groin, inhaling hard as though he was sniffing drugs. I was afraid that I might finish the instant his lips touched my erection, I said as much, but he wasn’t bothered.

“Come down my throat, yes,” he murmured, and swallowed me down to the root.

“Oliver,” I screamed, but he was lost in it, and soon I was gone too: his mouth felt heavenly, like ripples of warm, wet silk around my dick. He did a wicked thing with the tip of his tongue and I went off like a rocket.

When I opened my eyes again, he was licking his lips.

“That good?” I asked, and he nodded his head and hummed in appreciation.

His hand was on his cock, but he wasn’t jacking off. The temptation to reciprocate was hard to resist, but I wanted him to come while I was inside of him.

I rolled on top of him and laid my head on his chest.

“You’re gonna fall asleep aren’t you,” he said.

“Of course not,” I huffed. He caressed my hair and it was only when his hand slid beneath my top that I realised that I was still wearing my tee. I wanted to feel his flesh against mine, so I asked him to take it off me. I raised my arms above my head and let him do all the work, while I enjoyed the softness of his skin and the firmness of his muscles.

“Lazy boy,” he said, but he was smiling; his hard-on was poking me in the stomach.

 

I couldn’t believe that Elio was naked in my bed; I couldn’t believe that he’d just shot his load down my throat. All that glorious skin caressing mine: I had waited for so long and hadn’t expected that I would have this again.

I stroked every inch of flesh while he writhed on top of me, his pointy nipples driving me crazy whenever they connected with my chest.

“I’ll come if you keep doing this,” I told him, when my balls had started to throb.

He sucked on my neck and moaned.

I flung my arm in the direction of the bedside table and managed to open the drawer.

“You’re like an octopus,” he joked.

“They eat their mates,” I replied, and earned myself a bite.  I retaliated and soon enough we were wrestling in earnest. I had no intention of hurting him, or indeed of winning, so I let him pin me to the mattress. By the time he had me immobilized, we were both breathless and he was fully hard again.

“Say that you want it,” he growled, as he stared into my eyes.

“Yes, yes,” I stammered.

“Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me, Elio, please,” I said, and my dick twitched with every word I uttered.

He let go of me and grabbed the tube of lubricant from inside the open drawer.  

I shut my eyes to calm down a little, while he slicked himself.

“Jesus,” I shouted, when he gave my cock a long, wet, stroke.

“Look at me,” he intimated, and I tried to take in the beauty of his flushed face and torso, but it was too much, so I moaned and spread my legs instead.

“Greedy,” he growled, and pushed a pillow under my ass.

“I haven’t done this in ages,” he murmured, as his lubed finger circled my hole.

I was close to screaming and my thighs were shaking.

“Get in me,” I begged, and he shoved in his entire finger in one go.  It hurt but I bore down on it and Elio got the message and fucked me with it. It didn’t take long to feel that hungry emptiness which only Elio’s cock could satiate.

He was shiny with sweat and had never looked more gorgeous.

“You are so beautiful,” I croaked.  

Elio uttered a strange cry and buried his face in my throat.

“It’s okay,” I said, but he rose up on to his knees and glared at me. “’s not okay,” he spat out. He threw himself on me again and this time I felt the head of his dick nudging my hole. He hovered until he felt the telltale flutter of my rim then he plunged in with a grunt.

It hurt like a bitch, but it was good clean pain; pain that would translate into ecstasy as soon as I got used to him again. Elio wasn’t tender and I didn’t want him to be; there would be time for tenderness later, when we’d sweated out the toxins of our remorse and regret. He wanted to dominate me and I needed it more than he did. He folded me in two and drove into me with all his strength; his mouth was hot on my skin, his bites were almost a solace.  

It was when he tried to get a hold of my dick that he shifted slightly and it was like an itch was finally being scratched.

“There, yeah, hmm, yeah,” I arched my whole body into him and his thrusts became deeper and meaner. I looked at his face and his expression was blurred with pleasure. He was whining loudly with every jab, and I don’t know when or how, but I was fisting my cock in time with Elio’s pumping hips.

“Wanna see you come,” he said, with a vicious smile, and just like that I let go and screamed through my release.

His orgasm was triggered by mine and he emptied himself into me with a cry that was both terrible and liberating.

 

“You killed me,” he mumbled, as he slowly pulled out of me.

“Shut up,” I bit back, grimacing at the feel of his semen trickling down my leg. “I won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

“You asked for it,” he said, as he nestled against my side.

“Yeah, I really did,” I sighed; it turned into a yawn and Elio nudged me in the ribs. “Wake up, old man,” he joked, but then he yawned too.

“I better get going,” I suggested, and he said he’d come with me.

He held me as we padded to the bathroom, his arm curled around my waist. Once in there, he sat behind me on the bidet and rested his cheek on my back while I washed myself.

“My turn,” he mumbled after a while, but he was too tired to do anything, so I washed him too.

“Bed,” he managed to slur the word while clinging to me like a band-aid. We staggered back into my bedroom and find our way under the covers, where we fell asleep almost as soon as we closed our eyes.

                                                                                                                            

Oliver’s eyelids were flickering but his face was placid in his sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night because I was thirsty and, for the first time in aeons, I went to the kitchen in the nude.

I was tired and my muscles were a bit sore, but I felt at peace with the world.

Since I knew the apartment by heart, I didn’t bother to switch on the lights. I was pouring myself a glass of orange juice, when I heard him approach.

“Elio?” he murmured, “Are you alright?”

He was naked too, and had sex-hair. I did too, probably.

“Thirsty,” I replied, as I took another glass from the counter and filled it with juice. “Come on, let’s go back to bed,” I said. As we returned to his bedroom, I saw that he was limping slightly.

“Sorry for waking you up,” I said, once we’d drained our glasses and were tucked in again.

“I’m a light sleeper,” he explained, as he spooned me from behind.

“You never were.”

“Things change,” he murmured. “But some stay the same, like this,” he kissed the back of my neck. I hummed and caressed his leg with the sole of my foot.

“Did you like it?” he asked, after a moment of silence.

“I loved it, Oliver,” I replied, “And you?”

“It was like,” he hesitated then went on, “It was like coming home. Like those dreams where you wander round in a fog and after much searching you see a house emerging in the distance and you know, you just _know_. You are my homecoming, Elio.”

I took his hand and brought it to my lips.


	21. Olga's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver has fun and Olga not so much...
> 
>  
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> More smut awaits.... and some plot...

I was being poked in the groin, insistently.

When I reached down, still half-asleep, I made contact with Elio’s naked ass.

Not a bad way to be greeted on a Sunday morning, I thought, but when I moved, I felt a sharp sting in my own backside. I’d have to be careful that day, avoid showing that it hurt when I sat down. What a delicious problem to have, I smiled to myself, after so many years worrying about pleasure instead of just having it.

I stroked Elio’s side and he made a noise of contentment.

“You are very warm,” he said.

“At least I’m good for something,” I replied.

He rolled over so that we were face to face. The tip of his nose was pink and he smelled of my soap and fresh sweat.

“You are good for everything,” he murmured, as he rubbed his eyes.

“Except for singing and dancing,” I said.

“You are a good dancer,” he argued, “Wanna know a secret?”

I brought my hand to his nest of curls and combed my fingers through it.

“As long as it’s not a nasty one,” I replied. Not after last night, I thought.

Elio’s lips did that thing I loved so much, which was a mix between a grin and a pout.

“First time I realised I felt something for you was when I saw you at Le Danzing with Chiara,” he said. “My friends envied you and I believed that I wanted to be you. I still remember what you were wearing and the song that was being played.”

He’d never told me that before. I let him continue.

“She was all over you and I wanted so much to be in her shoes.”

I stroked his cheek. “In high heels?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe,” he murmured.

“I knew you were watching,” I said. “The show was all for your benefit.”

“Fucking tease,” he growled, as he pulled me closer. I took him in my arms; he was small and yet so much bigger than the impression I had carried within my imagination. We were both aroused, but this time it was about tenderness.

Time ticked by as we held and caressed each other; no part of our bodies was off limits, but our mouths had yet to touch. I understood that he’d been waiting to trust me again, and that perhaps if I did kiss him, he’d let me; but I wanted him to decide; show him that I could be patient.

My hands were on his hips when he said that he wanted to blow me.

“Want to suck your balls,” were his words, and I nearly shot off without warning. He threw me a mock-innocent smile and pinned me to the bed.

I grimaced when my ass rubbed against the sheets.

“You okay?”  He looked worried.

“You should know,” I replied, smirking.

“Hmm,” he licked his lips while his hands smoothed down my inner thighs. “I want you so bad,” he said, his breath hot on my shaft.

“Me too,” I managed to say, before his mouth made me incoherent.

Elio had never been shy in bed, not even when he’d been a virgin. He’d taken what he’d needed and had asked for what he wanted, but the headiest thing was that, once he’d overcome the initial fear of being with another man, he’d been unstoppable. He could spend ages with his head between my legs, until I was a sweaty, begging mess. He was doing that now: his hand was clasping the base of my dick and tugging it, while the broad of his tongue stroked my sac and a finger pressed the spot behind my balls. There was a hypnotic rhythm to it, pull-lick-prod, and after a while my throat was hoarse from moaning and calling Elio’s and a number of other less polite names.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I reached out to grab my erection, but Elio slapped my hand away.

“Don’t,” he growled.

“Fucking do something then,” I whined, making him chuckle.

“Finally,” he said, as though he’d waited for me to grow desperate, which he probably had.

He stood up to get the lube and I had to look away: his dick was jutting out like it wanted my throat constricting around it.

“Lean your back against the headboard,” he ordered, and I hurried to comply. I watched as he fingered himself, and I caressed his thighs, all over his scars, which I wanted to erase and worship at the same time, because the hurt was also part of the man I loved.

“May I ride your dick, Sir?” he whispered, straddling my pelvis.

I didn’t have any clever comeback, so I moaned and cursed, and then he had gripped my erection and was hovering above it.

“What the fuck,” I started and “yes, yes,” I cried out, because he’d taken it all inside of him, gobbled it up like a kid with a lollipop. He cried too, because it must have hurt him, but as I looked into his hazy eyes, I saw that he was slack-jawed with lust; that made two of us.

“Monster cock,” he whispered, and his voice was licking at me like fire.

After that he pinched my nipples and ground his hips, and I was no longer able to control my body: it arched and writhed and convulsed, until he and I were both spent and wet with come.

 

“Are you sure they couldn’t hear us?” he asked, as I towelled him dry after the shower we'd taken together.

“Bit late to worry about that,” I smirked, “And no, they can’t hear a thing, I told you. Anyway, the salon is above the bedroom and no one’s in there at night.”

He let out an ‘ouch’ when I rubbed between his ass cheeks.

“Will you able to sit at the piano for hours?”

He took the towel from me and swatted my backside with it.

“You know I can,” he replied, “I’ll feel it, but I don’t mind that. It’s sexy.”

“You’ll be the end of me,” I joked, and suggested that maybe I shouldn’t go with him to Olga’s, since I wasn’t needed. I would pick him up and talk to Olga after they’d rehearsed. The truth being that I was afraid I’d be staring at Elio with a besotted air and that Olga would poke fun at us.

Elio pouted and strode out of the bathroom, enveloped in my black robe.

I followed him as though he had me on a leash.

“I didn’t invite you to my room,” he muttered.

“Talk to me,” I said, undoing the sash of the robe.

“Okay,” he sighed, “I feel like you don’t want me around now that we’ve slept together, like you want to keep your options open.”

I pressed my palms to his chest and admired the contrast between my hands and his skin.   
“I have no options,” I replied, “I’ll come with you if you won’t mind me ogling you from time to time.”

 “You ogled me already,” he countered, “Why do you think she told us about her lesbian friend?”

“Maybe because you were ogling me,” I joked, “That day when I took my shirt off.”

“That’s unfair,” he complained, “No one in the world can resist you when you strip off.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

His lips were swollen from rubbing against the scruff on my neck and I’d better get out or I’d lose the battle with my conscience.

I asked him if pasta was okay for lunch and he nodded his head.

 

It wasn’t Olga who opened the door but a flustered Larry.

“Oh it’s you,” he exclaimed, evidently expecting somebody else.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked.

“No, yes, I don’t know,” he replied, scratching the side of his neck. He was wearing, rather incongruously, a wide brimmed panama hat and cyclamen Capri pants.

He let us in and shut the door after peering out into the deserted _calle_.

“I don’t know where Olga is,” he said. “I returned here an hour ago, like we’d agreed, but she wasn’t in. Luckily I have a spare key but it’s very unusual for Olga not to be at home on a Sunday morning. And she didn’t leave a note or anything.”

“There must be a reason,” I said, “Maybe a friend came to pick her up or it could have been her daughter.”

“She’d have let me know.”

“Does she usually go out on her own?” Elio enquired.

“Not often, but she does, sometimes,” replied Larry. “You don’t think she might have fallen into the canal?”

“She’s probably just forgotten about us,” I replied, concealing my preoccupation.

We went upstairs to Larry’s studio and took a look at the portrait, which was strikingly similar in style to one of Meredith Frampton’s. I voiced my opinion and Larry seemed both surprised and pleased.

“I wouldn’t have imagined he was famous in your country,” he said, which was another way of telling me that as a dumb American, I wasn’t too bad after all.

“How do you know about him?” Elio whispered, when we got out of the room.

“Not just a pretty face,” I replied, and he rolled his eyes at me. “I saw some of his paintings in London, a couple of years ago. I was there for work not on holidays.”

He didn’t ask, but I knew what he was thinking. “I was on my own. Well, with my colleagues, but no plus one.”

Elio smiled, “You didn’t go dancing then.”

“They tried to convince me, but I was adamant.”

“You were so close,” he said, “Just a couple of hours away.”

I cupped his cheek and he leaned into my hand for a moment.

“Wonder what happened to Olga,” he said.

A few seconds later, the phone rang. Larry sprinted downstairs and answered the call.

“Hello, is that you Olga?” We heard him say. “Where are you? What, no, of course I’m not angry, I was just worried. Your other friends are here too. Oliver, Olga wants to talk to you.”

There wasn’t any preamble. “Did you find that lawyer?” she asked.

“I’ll have the paper ready for you tomorrow and I have found a place for your goods,” I realised that I sounded like a spy in a cheap detective story, but I was worried.

“Good,” she said, “I’ll be at Rio della Fornace in ten minutes.”

“I’ll come and get you,” I replied, and put the receiver down.

“What did she say?” I asked Larry, so that he wouldn’t have time to wonder about papers and goods.

“ _Un contrattempo_ ,” he replied, in his heavily accented Italian. “What kind of hold-up I haven't a clue.”

Elio insisted he’d come with me and when we got there, a water taxi was approaching from the direction of the Grand Canal. Olga was completely wrapped in furs, looking like a diminutive Tsarina. She tipped the driver, then he and I helped her on to the embankment.

“Gino’s father was Ezra’s friend,” she explained, “They used to drink grappa into the small hours, quoting Dante and Cavalcanti. Once I tried staying up with them but I couldn’t keep up.”

“With the drinking or the quoting,” Elio enquired.                       

“Both,” she replied, giving me her arm. It was a two minutes walk, but we proceeded slowly, and she had the time to tell us what had happened.

A woman had telephoned her saying that a representative of Yale University would be at the Gritti and that he was looking forward to talking to her about acquiring the bulk of Pound’s papers. If it was fine with Olga, they’d send someone from the hotel to pick her up.

“I told her that I was busy, but she insisted it wouldn’t take long and I would be accompanied back. I asked why this person couldn’t come to my house, but unfortunately there wasn’t time, he was in Venice only for a few hours for an event held at the Gritti.”

In the end, she had agreed to go, but instead of the Gritti they’d taken her to a nearby Palazzo, claiming that there had been a change of plan. There had been no one waiting for her there, the Palazzo was deserted and when she’d tried to get out, the door had been locked and there was no other exit.

“You have to inform the police,” Elio said.

“Nothing happened to me,” she argued, “I was comfortable and warm and there were even refreshments laid out for me.”

A few hours later, she’d heard a noise and tried the door again: it was open and she got out of the Palazzo and into an _osteria_ , where she’d used the telephone to call us and Gino.

“Whoever did it wanted to scare you off,” I said.

“I hope that’s all they meant to do,” she remarked. “And that nothing’s happened to the papers.”


	22. Sleuths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elio and Oliver go a-sleuthing and Larry has a proposal...
> 
> Oliver's POV
> 
> Beware the fluff :)

 

Larry made a great fuss about Olga and she accepted his offer of a glass of Dubonnet.

“I always carry a bottle with me,” he explained. “I drink it with lemonade.”

Elio and I declined the offer, as we were eager to check whether anything had happened to the papers. While the painter made sure Olga was warm and comfortable, we made our way out and into the storage room where the crates were kept.

I counted them: they were all there. Inside, the contents appeared to have not been disturbed.

“The problem is that there isn’t an inventory, so anybody could remove a bunch of letters and it would be very hard to tell,” I said.

“I think we should inform the police,” insisted Elio.

“Maybe I could visit that Palazzo while you are rehearsing,” I suggested. “Check if there’s any proof that Olga’s been there. If there is none, what would the police do?”

“But she’s been kidnapped!” he exclaimed.

“Not really,” I argued. “She was merely taken to a location in order to meet somebody and this person didn’t turn up. What we can do is to phone Yale tomorrow morning and find out if they are in any way involved in this.”

“You know they are not,” said Elio.

“Yeah, and they will be very annoyed that someone used their name for a potential scam.”

“You are not going to that Palazzo on your own,” he declared, frowning. “I’ll come with you.”

“What about the rehearsal?”

“We can go after that,” he replied.

“It will be too late,” I argued. “It may be too late already.”

He stared at me and a line formed between his eyes.

“I will be careful,” I said, “I promise.”

Elio seemed to ponder my words then shook his head.

“I have an idea,” he said, “The Gritti is ten minutes from here. It won’t take us long to come and go and in the meantime Olga can pose for Larry. Like that, she’ll get a rest and I’ll be with you.”

“You’ll be the Watson to my Sherlock,” I joked.

Elio smacked my ass, making me squirm. “Idiot,” he said, fondly.

 

When we returned into her salon, Olga had already dispatched Larry back to his studio.  She lay on the chaise longue sipping her liqueur.

“Nothing’s been touched,” said Oliver.

“Maybe it was just one of those Carnival jests,” she offered, but was obviously unconvinced. “Larry will spend the night here, in any case.”

“Tomorrow we’ll move the papers to their new secret location.”

She chuckled. “It’s difficult to be secretive in this city,” she said.

“We’ll do it overnight,” I replied, thinking of Pino and his water taxi. We’d have to make a couple of trips, but I was sure I could count on his discretion. And anyway, I planned to keep the boxes in our apartment and move them to the Ghetto later on. That way, Pino wouldn’t know their final destination. The crates were not so heavy that they couldn’t be carried around with a trolley.

“This is silly,” she argued. “I should have rented a warehouse somewhere in Mestre and I wouldn’t have to worry.”

“You can still do it,” I said, “No documents have been signed yet.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Elio told her about our decision to inspect the Palazzo where she’d been taken and she didn’t object. In fact, she seemed thrilled at the prospect and if she hadn’t been so frail she probably would have come with us.

“Larry will be happy that the day wasn't wasted,” she remarked. “That hat of his is really something, isn’t it? Like a character out of Coward’s Hay Fever. You haven’t a clue what I am talking about, have you?”

Elio replied that he did and that he thought Larry had most likely taken his inspiration from it.

I accompanied her upstairs and left her in the hands of the painter.

“She could store the papers in a security deposit at any bank,” Elio said, as we were walking towards Salute. “I have a feeling that she enjoys the thrill of being chased and being the centre of attention.”

“Who doesn’t?” I said, giving his hand a squeeze. There was no one around – it was getting dark and it was freezing cold – so I laced his fingers with mine and we walked hand in hand until we got to the embankment.

 

The Palazzo next to the Gritti had a greyish facade and gothic style windows with ogee arches. It was one of the many abandoned buildings that dotted the city, as was evident from the random broken glass panes and the crumbling masonry.

We went down a short flight of stairs and into a portico. It opened onto a vast space, the _androne_ , which smelled of piss and sewage. The floor was strewn with litter but the walls around us were covered with traces of old mosaics. I had borrowed a flash-light from Larry – a dainty affair with a silvery handle – and Elio and I stopped to admire the remains of what might have been precious artworks.

He had wrapped his arm around my waist, underneath my coat, and I almost forgot why we were there.

“I am so happy to be here with you,” I murmured.

Elio pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Breaking and entering can be very romantic,” he said.

“We haven’t done anything illegal,” I argued, and felt his hand slide down to cup my ass. We shared complicit smiles and moved on to the stairway that led to the upper floors.

From Olga’s description, it was clear that she’d been taken to the _piano nobile_.

“The door is open,” whispered Elio, as soon we reached the top of the stairs.

“Wait, let me go first,” I replied, and ignored his protests.

The beam of the torch illuminated surfaces ravaged by humidity, but no human presence. The floors creaked as we trod on them and Elio’s hand was gripping mine.

“You okay?” I asked.

He hummed and clutched me tighter.

The next room was the one we were looking for: there was only one way in and it was in better condition than the others.

“The armchair looks comfortable,” Elio remarked.

We took our time to inspect it but did not find any trace of occupancy.

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, sensing that Elio was getting anxious.

We hurried down the stairs and it was only in the portico that we stopped to draw breath.

“I need a cigarette,” he said, as soon as we got out.

I offered him my pack.

“Deserted palaces are scary,” he said. The lights of the Gritti hotel shone on us, and Elio’s skin seemed almost translucent.

“It’s the darkness,” I replied. “I shouldn’t have allowed you to come.”

He gave me a dirty look.

“Telling the police would be pointless,” I said. “But they used a water taxi and I’m sure all the owners know one another, so we could ask Pino to find out what he can about it.”

Elio’s glare turned into an admiring gaze.

“That’s really clever,” he said, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

I kissed the tip of his nose.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “It’s too cold to think straight.”

He shivered and, since no one was watching, I took him in my arms.

“Better now?” I asked, and his curls tickled my nose as he nodded his head.

 

Olga was waiting for us in her study. She wasn’t surprised that we hadn’t found anything. I asked her about the boat, if there was anything peculiar or memorable about it.

“I’d never seen the man before, but I imagined that the Gritti would hire their own staff for their taxis.”

That was a possibility, I said, and I would find out one way or the other.

I left them as they started to rehearse and went in search of Larry.

He was unpacking a week-end bag while the radio played generic pop music.

“A surprise lunch at the Gritti,” he said, referring to the story Olga must have told him. “Very glamorous, very chic, isn’t it? Dado, that’s my friend, thinks it’s too touristy, but I wouldn’t mind going for cocktails or for an _aperitivo_.”

I agreed that it seemed very grand and he gazed at me, assessing me for the first time.

“Olga said that your friend is a very talented musician.”

“She’s right,” I replied, “Elio is an amazing pianist.”

“He’s pretty,” he went on, “But not as handsome as you. I could paint you, if you wanted. The two of you, I mean, together.”

I felt my cheek redden.

“Is that so obvious?” I asked.

“Well,” he drawled, “It’s not hard to guess, especially if you play for the same team. And I mean it, about the painting. I’m almost done with Olga and I wouldn’t mind staying in the city a bit longer.”

He explained that he’d met Dado in London and that they’d had a casual fling but now the affair was getting more serious.

“I love Italians,” he gushed, “They are so good in bed, but I don’t have to tell you that,” he winked.

I was about to say that Elio was not precisely Italian, but it didn’t really matter.

“My lips are sealed,” I replied, with a grin. “I’ll ask him about the portrait.”

“You don’t have to pay me, I’m sure I’ll find a buyer for it.”

He was smirking so I couldn’t tell if he was being serious.

“That’s out of the question,” I said, trying not to sound too harsh.

Larry snorted. “Jealous and possessive,” he said, “Yeah, I thought as much.”

 

We had dinner at an _osteria_ : between the wine and the events of the day, we were rather tired and sleepy when we got home.

Because of that, we didn’t see the letter on the doormat until we stepped on it.

“Hand delivered, of course,” I said, “Maybe it’s a message from Rose.”

It wasn’t. Inside the envelope was a questionnaire about nuclear weapons and on one sheet of paper was a large square under which was written ‘toe print’; on another was a brief message, which read:

“Daniel told me about you and since you are a fellow American, I wonder if you might be interested in space travel and peace on Earth. Bring friends if you like, but don’t forget the prints. Ralph Curtis.”

Elio and I looked at each other and started laughing.

“What a day,” he exclaimed, collapsing on the couch.

I sat next to him and he put his head on my shoulder.

“Larry wants to paint our portrait,” I murmured, “The two of us, together.”

“Did you tell him about us?”

“No, he said it was obvious to him. He told me about his friend in Burano.”

Elio was kissing my neck, softly.

“He said Italians are good in bed and that I should know about it.”

He uttered a wheezy chuckle.

“I didn’t disagree, in case you’re interested.”

“I’m only part-Italian,” he argued.

“The part that matters,” I replied.

We stayed like that for a moment and then Elio said that he was going to his room. I had hoped we’d sleep together, but I figured that since he was working the following day, he needed some time on his own.

After using the bathroom, I went to my room and changed the sheets. I was on my way to the kitchen for a drink of water, when I heard Elio calling my name.

He was already underneath the covers and his forehead and nose were creased in a frown.

“Why aren’t you coming? I’m cold,” he whined.

“I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“We soiled your sheets.”

I sat on the bed and stroked his curls.

“If that’s your solution soon we’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

He bit my wrist, a barely-there graze.

“I’ll just get a bottle of water,” I said, and he closed his eyes and let me go.

Later, as I was curled around him, he purred contentedly, “So warm,” and we both fell asleep.


	23. Simone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver shows his weakness.
> 
> Warning: smut and fluff ahead, and more to come next chapter. Much more...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, thanks so much for your kind support. I will reply to your comments as soon as I can. But please do know that they mean the world to me...

 

Elio’s whines awakened me at dawn. He’s having a nightmare, I thought, briefly, until I realised that he was humping my thigh. His were moans, not whines.

I stroked his back and called his name.

“Uh?” he muttered, his lips glued to my chest. His eyes fluttered open but he didn’t move, except for his pelvis which had stilled. “...fault,” was the tail-end of his comment.

“What was that?” I enquired, smiling.

He drew back slightly and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his pyjama.

“I said that since you are naked it’s your fault,” he replied.

“Is that so?”

“And hairy men’s odour is more... more...,” he scrunched his nose, “More primal.”

“You’re finding my reeking irresistible,” I said, “Not very nice, but I’ll take it.”

He dug his toes into my shin.

“Yes, you will,” he growled, and licked the hollow of my throat and along my collarbones. He made me raise my arms and nuzzled my armpits. When he got to my nipples, we were both wet. I had removed his bottoms and was game for anything he desired. I wanted him to choose and from the way things had gone, I was expecting him to be on top. Instead, Elio rolled onto his stomach then rose up on all-fours. I was momentarily caught by surprise and he bit his lips, uncertain.

“I could go and wash,” he murmured, and that was enough to fire me up. I knew exactly what he meant.

“Don’t move,” I said, and as quick as I could, positioned myself behind him and spread him open. He squirmed when he felt my hot breath on his rim.

“Okay?” I asked, and didn’t have to wait long for his strangled “Yes!”

I’d wanted to take it slowly, but the instant my tongue tasted the bitter-sweetness of him, I lost my moorings. For long moments, all I could do was lick and grunt and suck, while Elio whimpered as though he was falling apart. Nothing disgusted me, not the sweat or the coarse hairs flattened by my spit: it amazed me how our bodies responded to one another, how utterly synchronised they’d always been.

“Want you,” he husked, parting his legs wider and wiggling his ass.

Lube, I asked, and by the sound he made I understood he had none. I’ll get mine, I said, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“You’re wet enough,” he said, and then, sensing my opposition, “Only the tip like that time--- remember?”

I did, and god, just the memory of it nearly made me come.

“Touch yourself,” I told him, and placed a hand flat on the pillow next to his face so that he could suck on my thumb.

He looked debauched and impossibly beautiful like that, with his curls fanning out and his lips red and swollen.

I gripped my cock and teased his balls and perineum with it. It was so engorged I couldn’t wait much longer.

“Come the fuck on,” Elio complained, so I entered him. There were obscene squelching noises as I thrust in and out, and as he worked his own dick at manic speed. I never allowed him to push back: the way his hole tormented my cockhead was driving me insane; even without full penetration, I was going to come sooner than I intended. Luckily, Elio was there too: he bit down on my thumb and convulsed, so that I ended up shooting my release all over his buttocks.

“Damn,” he said, afterwards. “Now we’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

 

 

“Sorry about your finger,” he said, over breakfast.

I’d had to put a band-aid on it because he’d broken the skin, but I didn’t mind. Elio, however, was upset about it. He hadn’t minded the bite-marks or the hickeys all over my neck and torso, but my fingers seemed to be a different matter. I asked him to explain why.

“It’s too close to what I did to myself,” he replied.

“You didn’t hurt me on purpose,” I argued, “It’s only a graze anyway.”

He frowned at me and then smiled.

“You still like it,” he said, licking his lips. “I wasn’t sure.”

I opened my mouth to reply but shook my head.

“What?” he asked.

“I love everything we do in bed, as long as it’s just the two of us.”

“And outside of bed?” he mocked.

“On the floor, you mean?”

He giggled and I kissed him on the cheek.

 

Pino was bow-legged and grizzled, but had broad shoulders and lively eyes.

His conversation was dotted with Venetian slang, but he dropped it when he realised I had trouble understanding. I had asked Rose’s opinion and she assured me that Pino could be trusted. I explained about Olga’s ‘abduction’ and described the person that had manned the boat she’d been on. I also hired his services for later that evening, so that we could collect the boxes and transfer them into my apartment.

The day went smoothly: I got the contract as anticipated and Olga signed it, with Larry as witness.

“It’s not your will, I hope,” he joked, and she pretended to be offended.

We discussed about the inventory and she promised to help me find the right person to take care of it. Once Larry had left, I convinced her to telephone Yale. Naturally, they had not sent anybody and the man she spoke to, a Professor Eastman, was duly alarmed and apologetic.

“It’s Carnival,” she told him, “Just a little fun, probably.”

It took a while to placate him.

She gave me a key to her house so that I could let myself in later that evening.

“Larry won’t be coming back until tomorrow,” she explained. “And I am going to stay with Jane and Philip. They’ve invited me over to discuss the arrangements for the fundraiser. The end of the week is nigh.”

“Take care of yourself,” I said, kissing her hand.

She patted my back. “I had to face much worse, my boy,” she replied.

 

I called Rudy and left a message on his answering machine. Hours later, when the phone rang, I assumed that it was him.

I said ‘ _pronto_ ’, expecting the familiar ‘hey’, but the other side of the line was silent.

“Is Elio there?” a male voice enquired. “I was given this number by the lady at the Fenice et des Artistes.”

“He’s at work,” I replied, “Are you a friend of his?”

Another silence, this time more prolonged.

“Yes, you could say that,” the man replied. He sighed. “Could you tell me where he’s working?”

I certainly didn’t want to do that over the phone.

“I’m in Mestre for a few days,” he went on, “I’d like to see him before I leave.”

“If you give me your name and contact details, I’ll get him to call you,” I replied.

Again, he sighed, but he must have sensed there was no other way.

“Simone,” he said, “I’m staying at the Marriott, room 36.”

“I’ll write it down.”

I was about to say goodbye, when he spoke again.

“You sound American,” he said.

“That’s because I am,” I replied, and not wanting to be rude, I told him my name.

“Wait, not _that_ Oliver surely?” he sniggered, “Fucking cheek you have, after what you did,” he nearly shouted these words then he cut me off.

 

After that conversation, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I drifted from room to room, and when the phone rang again, I stared at it as though it could bite me.

This time it was Rudy.

“Sorry for having gone AWOL,” he said.

I told him about Olga’s adventure and he whistled. “I’ll see her tonight at the Rylands, so thanks for forewarning me. Wanna get a drink at the Malvasia?”

Campo della Malvasia wasn’t far from the Malibran where Elio would be rehearsing, so I accepted.

I arrived at six and Rudy came in a couple of minutes later.

“I really landed you in the soup with this Rudge business, didn’t I?” he said, as we sipped our Camparis. “And how’s Elio doing?”

“Busy, but he seems happy,” I replied, not meeting his gaze.

“Give him time.”

“It’s not that,” I said. I hesitated speaking to him about the phone call, but since there wasn’t much to tell, I decided to confide in him.

“Probably just an ex boyfriend,” he commented. “They’ll spend an evening reminiscing and then he’ll go his own way again.”

“He’ll remind Elio that I was horrible to him, just when I thought we were in a good place.”

Rudy squeezed my arm, “I’m sure you’ll be alright. Trust him.”

“I do, that’s not the problem,” I replied. “But tell me about the fundraiser.”

He accepted that I needed to change the subject and told me about the petty squabbles between some of the Same Venice board members. De Luigi was another thorn in the organisers’ side, since they never knew what he was up to until it was too late to put a stop to it.

“Once he joked he wanted to convince the two scions of a famous industrialist to dress like, how shall I put it,” he looked around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, and whispered, “One as a penis and the other as a ball-sack. I believe it’s only a matter of time.”

“I thought all was permitted during Carnival,” I remarked.

He shook his head, “Not anymore.”

 

I chain-smoked as I waited for Elio outside the Malibran. It was seven when he came out, together with Adriana and a couple of young men whose names I couldn’t recall. When he spotted me, he wished them goodnight and came up to me.

“Weren’t we meeting at home? Did you arrange things with Pino?”

“Yes, but I needed to see you,” I replied, and he beamed at me. I returned his smile, but my cheeks hurt with the effort.

“Something wrong?” he enquired, frowning.

I told him about the phone call. He stopped in his tracks, visibly surprised.

“What, how did he,” he muttered, “Must have called my parents,” he said, with increasing annoyance. “What else did he say?”

“He wasn’t too pleased to find out who I was.”

Elio snorted a laugh. “Like that’s any of his business.”

He plunged into a clenched-jawed reverie, so I let him be and smoked another cigarette. My throat hurt and I was afraid I might be falling ill again. That would have been a record, twice in a month or so; maybe I just wanted Elio to take care of me, I reflected.

 

Pino had no news for us, but he was confident that it was only a matter of time.

“I don’t want people to gossip,” he said, “Softly, softly, is the only way here in Venice.”

The removal of the crates went as planned, but when all was done, and the papers were safe in our apartment, Elio and I were exhausted. We took a quick shower, cleaned our teeth and went to my bedroom.

Earlier, Elio had darted a quick look at the notebook by the phone and I’d wondered whether he wished to phone the Marriott.

“He was with me when I hurt myself,” he whispered, as we lay in bed side by side. “There was a lot of blood. I begged him not to call an ambulance. I was high and I didn’t want my parents to find out.”

“You told me you hadn’t shared that with anyone.”

“I didn’t,” he said, “But he found me, and I was in a state, you can imagine, so I told him about you, not all of it but enough. I wouldn’t have if I had been sober.”

I was afraid to touch him.

“Were you living with him?”

“I was sharing with a few students,” he replied, “I’d had sex with him, once or twice, nothing serious; blew him in the toilets of a club, that sort of things.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Maybe it was serious for him,” I argued.

“I don’t know,” he said, “Soon after I had that accident I told you about and my parents took me away and sent me to a shrink.”

“And you never heard from him again?”

“He tried to get in touch, but I was cutting ties with that part of my life,” he replied. “He was doing drugs too, so---”

“What is he like? Physically, I mean.”

Elio scooted closer to me and put his head on my chest.

“Sandy hair, smaller than you but not as skinny as me; hairless chest and thighs,” he murmured. He was stroking down my torso. “He didn’t do much for me, no one really did.”

I kissed his curls, once, twice.

“Call him tomorrow,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, sounding very young and uncertain.

 

Two hours later, I woke up in a sweat. My head hurt and my throat was on fire.

Elio was snoring softly, so I slunk out of bed and tiptoed to the kitchen, where I boiled some water and drank it with lemon. I felt miserable and alone. I kept seeing Elio as Simone had found him: lying in a pool of his own blood, drugged and terrified. The tears came before I could stop them, but I managed to be silent.

I drank a second cup of lemony water and took a third with me to bed.

“Oliver?” Elio was waiting for me, and when he saw me, he jumped out of bed.

He touched my forehead and hissed, “You have a fever. I should have known you weren’t okay. You were so quiet and those damn boxes...”

I told him that it was nothing; that I just needed to sleep it off.

“I have some paracetamol in my room,” he said, and was gone in a flash. He returned with pills and a glass of water. He caressed my hair, as I swallowed the meds down. That gesture made me want to cry again.


	24. Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver receives a visit.
> 
> Warning for fluff.
> 
> Elio's POV / Oliver's POV
> 
> Next: you know what's coming next, don't you? ;)

I telephoned Simone before breakfast, not because I wanted to hear from him, but only to get it out of the way before Oliver woke up.

“It’s Elio,” I said, when they put me through to his room, “How did you find me?”

“Hello to you too, I’m fine thanks, since you didn’t ask.”

“That’s good to know,” I replied. I knew I was being a dick, but I didn’t like being ambushed.

He cleared his throat. “Your mother told me about the Fenice and since I was coming to Mestre for work, I thought I’d get in touch.”

“My life’s very busy at the moment, so I won’t have time to see you.”

“We could go for a drink, that won’t take long.”

“Okay, the truth is... I don’t want to see you. It would bring back memories I’d rather forget.”

“But you didn’t do that with Oliver,” he argued. “I can’t believe you took him back after what he did to you.”

“I did not _take him back_ , that’s not how it was and anyway it’s none of your business.”

“I bet he’s forbidding you to see me.”

I laughed. “No one’s telling me what to do, and if you really want to know, it was Oliver who told me to phone you.”

“I can’t begin to comprehend why you’ve forgiven him.”

“It’s not for you to understand,” I said, “We were friends a long time ago, you and I, and now we are not. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Friends,” he sniggered. “We had sex a bunch of times, _a lot_ of times,  or have you forgotten that too?”

“Most days I was high and when I wasn’t, I was so unhappy I could barely keep it together. You were nice to me and I’m grateful, but I’d rather not revisit those days.”

“You’re making a mistake, being with Oliver.”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ve got to go,” I said, “Thanks for thinking of me.”

He put the phone down without saying goodbye.

 

Oliver was feverish and his hair was wet with perspiration, but that wasn’t the reason for his eyes being red-rimmed. I knew that he’d cried, but since he hadn’t said anything, I’d preferred not to ask.

When I went back to his bedroom with a jug of orange juice and a bowl filled with kiwi slices, he was asleep and embracing my pillow.

I sat next to him and watched him: his neck and jaw were covered in stubble and his hair was long enough to curl behind his ears.

It was probably a bit insane how much I loved him. There was nothing to be done about it, aside from making the most of our life together. It might not last: Oliver might decide that after all he wanted a wife and kids, even though he’d said he was gay. It’s not that I didn’t believe him: it was life that I didn’t trust.

 

“Elio?” he muttered, as his eyes slowly opened.

“I’m here,” I replied, stroking his back. “Do you need to go to the toilet?”

He smiled. “Very tactful,” he said, “But I think I can manage.”

I helped him into his black robe and followed him to the bathroom. He took one look at his face in the mirror and grimaced. “I look like shit,” he said, hoarsely.

“A wash and a shave, that’s all you need,” I replied.

I waited for him to relieve himself, and started the shower. The water was scolding hot and made him feel better. The shave would have to wait, he said, and I didn’t insist, even though I’d have liked to do it for him. I didn’t mind the facial hair, as he knew only too well.

 

I didn’t have to be anywhere until two in the afternoon, so I went back to bed with him. He was drinking his second glass of juice when I told him about the phone call.

“He must have been really disappointed,” he said, “I would have been crushed, in his place.”

I laid my head on his shoulder and kissed his neck.

“Crushed, really?” I asked.

He nodded. “If I think that I could have been the one calling you and you’d have been with somebody else, not wanting to see me,” he stopped, and I leaned back to look at him.

“I can’t imagine that,” I replied. “Not anymore.”

I pulled the robe open and nuzzled his armpit.

“What are you doing,” he asked, smiling.

“Isn’t it obvious,” I said, biting the tender skin below his nipple.

“I’m too sick to make love to you,” he argued. “You shouldn’t be so close, you might get it too.”

“Get what?” I enquired, mock-innocently, while my hand travelled down to his crotch. He was hard, like he’d been in the shower, even though I’d pretended not to notice. I closed my fist around his cock and he moaned. I pulled the covers down and told him to open his legs. I wanted to do that for him, and for myself.

Sucking his dick would always be the best way to start the day: he raked his fingers through my hair while I took as much of him as I could, relishing the weight and taste of his flesh on my tongue.

 

“I feel better already,” he croaked, after I’d licked him clean. I’d spurted all over his belly while he had been staring at me, speechless and hazy-eyed.

“I shouldn’t have, but your hard-on was begging me,” I joked, “Not once but twice.”

“Being naked next to you,” he replied, “Does things to me.”

He was woozy again, so I gave him another paracetamol and let him sleep.

Emilia brought down some lentil soup for lunch, together with baked apples and lemon custard cream.

“ _La Signora_ Lambert asked me to make enough for four,” she explained.

I went upstairs to thank Rose, and she offered me coffee. Peter had gone to Milan to attend a conference.

“Have you decided about your costume?” she asked, as we drank the strong brew.

I told her about dressing up as Vivaldi, but she wasn’t impressed.

“Why not something more creative, like a flower or an animal? A tulip, for instance, and Oliver could dress up as a lion or a panther.”

“We only have four days, wouldn’t that be too complicated?”

She shook her head. “I can get hold of dozens of costumes. You could be anything you like, just tell me what size you two are.”

I did, and then asked her whether she still wanted to break into the Giudecca’s secret garden.

“Peter made me promise that I wouldn’t do it,” she replied, “But he knows I won’t keep it.”

They seemed very happy, I said, and asked how long they’d been married.

“It’s going to be nineteen years in May,” she replied. “My parents always said it would be hard work and compromise: they made it sound awfully drab. It isn’t, if you find the right person.”

No, I agreed that it wasn’t.

 

 

Elio came in to say goodbye before going to rehearsals.

“Rose said she might come and check on you later,” he said, as he kissed me on the cheek.

“I’m fine,” I replied, “My throat is almost back to normal.”

I wasn’t lying: probably, it had only been caused by chain-smoking coupled with the cold night air along the Grand Canal.

After Elio had gone, I decided that I would take a look at the papers to see whether I could sort them by type and by date.

There were masses of them, some typewritten some in Pound’s elegant scrawl. Letters; drafts of poems, of translations, of libretti; manuscripts and lists of things to do or to buy; journals and radio broadcasts; photos and musical scores: years and years of this man’s life, all documented and preserved.

I gave up on my original resolve and simply read and read.

It was the lack of light that made me realise that I’d been at it for hours. I stood up and stretched my arms and legs before heading to the kitchen for a cup of camomile tea.

I was stirring the honey into the hot drink, when I heard someone knock at the door.

Maybe Rose didn’t want to just come in, I thought, but when I went to see who it was, I was faced with a man of Elio’s age: Simone.

He wore glasses and was not conventionally handsome, but I could see why Elio might have been attracted to him.

“Come in,” I said, “Elio’s not in and I have a sore throat, but I don’t think I’m contagious.”

I saw that I’d surprised him, that he had not expected that reaction.

“How tall are you,” he said, “Elio never said you were a bloody giraffe.”

“Too tall,” I replied, “Everybody comments on it and it’s not easy to find pants that fit.”

He didn’t remove his coat, but he was looking around the apartment as though he didn’t believe Elio wasn’t there.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

I explained that it was only a rental, but I could tell that he thought he’s scored a point.

“It’s the money isn’t it? You are loaded and look like a movie star: it’s not hard to understand why he took you back.”

“You think he’d be that shallow?”

“Well, he took you back,” he repeated, glaring at me, “After you nearly killed him. He was afraid he’d never play the piano again. He got this illness, something-praxia, but I thought that was all bullshit. You caused it, by treating him like trash. You’ll do it again, just look at you, of course you will.”

In the past, I’d have punched someone like him. Now, I felt like I needed to hear those words said out loud.

“I’ll never, I won’t---” I started, but he pushed me aside and stormed out.

 

I don’t know how long I sat on the floor next to the open boxes. I couldn’t be anywhere else, not while Elio was not in the apartment. After a while, I fell asleep among the papers.

“Oliver, wake up,” Elio was stroking my back, as I opened my eyes. He looked terrified.

“What?” I mumbled.

“You wouldn’t move,” he replied, “I thought... why are you not in bed?”

“I was reading,” I said, “And then your friend came here and he---”

“Not Simone,” he hissed. “Why, what did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter; he was right about me,” I whispered, “Not about you, only me. And I thought that I’d be okay here, guarding the papers. Doing something right.”

“I don’t understand.”

I wasn’t sure I could explain.

“I hurt you because I didn’t pay enough attention to what you wanted. I did what I thought was best but only because it was the easy way out.”

Elio sat next to me and took my hand in his.

“Simone doesn’t know you,” he said, “I was wrong blaming you for everything that happened to me. I fell apart, but I could have sought help sooner. I don’t want to see him and I wish he hadn’t come here to upset you. And you should be in bed,” he added, touching my forehead to check whether I had a temperature.

 

“I don’t want to dress as a panther,” I said, as Elio rubbed Vicks on my chest. It stank and I hated it, but he’d insisted it would do me good. I didn’t have a cold but who cared when I could get a massage out of it?

“What about a lion or a tiger?”

“Didn’t we agree that you would dress as a monkey and I as the King of Greece?”

He grimaced. “That was only a joke.”

“I want to wear a crown,” I insisted. “And you will bite me and I will pretend to die.”

Elio giggled. “Why the crown, I didn’t take you for a royalist.”

“I’m not, but I like the trappings.”

“Will I be allowed to touch your majesty?”

“Before or after you’ve bitten me to death?”

He had finished the massage and was looking at me, a strange, unreadable expression on his face.

“I’ll go wash my hands,” he murmured.

I leaned back against the pillows and thought of the many letters Pound had written to his lover Olga. So much love, wit and erudition, but above all, a bond of enduring, unbreakable friendship and trust.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked me, once he was in bed next to me.

“Much better,” I replied, “The Vicks will do the rest.”

“The smell reminds me of my childhood. It’s nasty but I love it.”

He nuzzled my throat then he kissed the underside of my jaw.

“Oliver,” he murmured, and again, “Oliver, Oliver, Oliver...”

I was reduced to humming and moaning as my heart throbbed and jumped.

“You will never hurt me again,” he whispered, “I know you won’t.”

I shook my head, fiercely, “Never, never,” I replied.

He pressed his thumb between my lips until I parted them; I licked and sucked it and looked me in the eye when he put it in his mouth.

 


	25. Petite Mort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a fluffy sexy interlude. Do not expect plot to happen, because the boys are in heat. You have been warned.
> 
> Elio's POV then Oliver's

 

I was getting used to waking up next to Oliver. He was turned towards me and in his sleep he seemed young and innocent. I’d wanted to kiss him, last night, but his eyes had been heavy with sleep and I’d contented myself with cuddles and caresses. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but the words wouldn’t come out.

I went to the bathroom for a piss and to clean my teeth and just as I was going back to bed, the phone rang. I was sure I knew who that was and I didn’t want to reply, but that was better than the alternative.

“Pronto,” I said, through gritted teeth, expecting to hear Simone’s voice.

“Hello there,” a man’s voice, unknown to me. “Is that Daniel’s American friend?”

“Oliver is asleep,” I replied, “I’m Elio, his room-mate,” I cringed even as I said it. “I’m guessing you’re Ralph Curtis.”

“Too right I am,” Curtis said, “So, are you ready for liftoff? Because, you see, I have spoken to Rose and she said you might be looking for a monkey outfit and I have one that I never use. Actually, it is supposed to be the captain of the spaceship Barbaro, but I can lend it to you in exchange for your signature.”

I was slightly dumbfounded by this absurd conversation. Once I’d have been exposed to my dad’s dinner drudges, but now I was unused to eccentrics of this magnitude.

“Yes, that’s right, and we got your letter,” I muttered.

“I happen to be at home today,” Ralph continued, “I mean it’s not really my home, but that’s where the costume is. I could see you this evening at 9, if that’s alright. Bring a bottle of Pastis and the toe prints.”

“Why the Pastis?” I enquired.

“Aniseed is good for the digestion,” was his puzzling reply, “Space travel can induce sickness. Over and out,” he said, and ended the call.

 

“Who were you talking to?” asked Oliver, when I brought him coffee in bed.

I relayed what had happened and he laughed. He sounded better, I said, and he confirmed that his throat was fine and that he was feeling good.

“What shall we use for the toe prints?” I asked, “I don’t have any ink and anyway that would be too messy.”

“I was thinking of shoe polish,” he said, and he indicated the cabinet where it was kept.

His toes were long and thick and I recalled the first time I’d licked them, which had also been the first time I’d slept with him. I massaged the viscous substance into his skin and he did the same in return. We giggled a great deal as we tried to not to smudge the paper and when it was done, we contemplated the result with glee.

“Yours is enormous,” I said, “Like another part of you.”

“What, my brain?” he joked, nudging my ribs.

“I was thinking of your ego,” I bit back, smiling.

“Yours is as elegant as the rest of you,” he remarked. “All of you,” he whispered.

 

We showered separately because I didn’t want to be tempted into anything sexual until I’d summoned up the nerve to tell him that I loved him. After the incident with Simone, I’d realised that I’d dragged this weight of fear and resentment far too long, and that Oliver must have been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

My best laid plan went the same way as those of mice and men.

Oliver had been waiting for me in the bedroom, what later I’d have called an ambush, and I could not, would not resist him.

 

He was naked and was pretending to read a book.

“What are you doing?” I asked, frowning at him. “Get dressed or you’ll get sick again.”

“Reading, same as you that afternoon I came into your room.”

“I was jacking off to the thought of you,” I replied.

“Were you really?” he arched his eyebrows. I had tried not to look at his dick, but it was just _there_ , and so much of it. I could smell it from where I stood; if there was a fragrance I could have bottled, it would have been Oliver’s hard cock’s.

“I’ve got to go,” I lied, “That thing I told you about.”

His face fell. “You said you were free until after lunch,” he said, and put his black robe on. His dick stood out, refusing to be encased by fabric.

“Fuck it,” I growled, and flung my arms around his neck.

We crashed onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. I was determined to take him into my mouth, but he rolled over on his stomach and leaned on his elbows.

“Please, I need it like this,” he croaked, “You have no idea.”

I had every idea. Oliver’s ass was one of the wonders of creation and I’d have happily got lost inside of it.  I got hold of the lube before things went too far and threw it on the bed. I wanted to be fucking him already, but there was something I desired even more, if possible. I smacked one buttock and watched it bounce, mesmerised.

“Oh god,” Oliver moaned, and spread his legs wider.

I let my instinct guide me, and it led me to the core of him. He was hairy, my Oliver, and when I licked his hole, the sweaty fuzz tickled my nose. That was a sight I’d never forgotten: his spit-soaked rim, angry-pink and twitching.

My tongue was not enough for him, so I stuck a finger in and almost sensed Oliver’s scream. I ignored him and kept plunging in, until I was breathless and light-headed.

Oliver’s continuous whimpers, the guttural _aaahh’s_ of intense pleasure, seemed to be wired to my balls, which ached like crazy.

We were sideways on the bed, so it was easier to fuck him while standing behind him. When I told him, he gripped his dick and tugged it furiously.

As soon as my cock was dripping with lube, I drove in to him.

“Yes, god, yes,” he cried, and arched his back, which was shiny with sweat. I knew he didn’t need anything fancy; I just held him by the hips and fucked into him until my eyes rolled inside my head. It was the most intoxicating sensation, magnified by the love I’d denied myself for so long. When he came, he milked me dry too, and I collapsed on top of him, exhausted and happy.

 

“I used to dream of this,” he told me, when we managed to get under the covers. “They were the only times when I’d get really aroused. I tried not to admit it, not even to myself.”

I pressed my chest to his and felt a current of electricity pass between us. I was soft but Oliver was still half-hard. I remembered that at times a good hard fuck did that to him: it left him so buzzed that he hankered after a second orgasm. It made me very happy that this hadn’t changed. I stroked the back of his neck then wove my fingers through his hair. His heart was beating with mine, and suddenly it was impossible to stay silent.

“Oliver,” I murmured, as I mouthed at his throat, “My Oliver, you are mine, say that you are mine.”

He nodded, and his heartbeat sped up. I leaned back and took his face in my hands. I waited until his eyes opened and stared into them. He was dazed and a little anxious.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said, and he froze, so I went on, “I’m not saying I won’t get angry with you or treat you like shit, because it will happen. But I just,” I was blushing but what the hell, “I’m so in love with you, Oliver.”

His smile was wary. “No more figuring things out?” he asked.

“Well, I may have told Ralph that we are room-mates,” I replied, making a face.

“That doesn’t matter,” he argued, “It’s other people, but between us, you want to, yes?”

I licked my lips and gazed at his. They parted and I saw his tongue. I wanted it in my mouth, wanted it so badly I couldn’t be without it for a second more.

 

 

I was stoned with sexual pleasure, so far gone it was almost like a hypnotic state. There is nothing more satisfactory than getting what one desires and finding out that it’s even better than one remembered it. Elio was better: more adult, more skilled, more relentless. I didn’t have to tell him what I wanted, he knew it already.  In the aftermath, he held me and caressed me, and it felt like a goodbye of sorts; like the French for orgasm, _la petite mort_ , the little death, I was mourning a loss I couldn’t define. My dick was indifferent to these emotions, it just touched Elio’s skin, soft as the flesh of a peony, and wanted more; always more.

 

His tongue had slipped inside my mouth minutes ago, or was it hours, and I had been open-mouthed like an adolescent until Elio’s teeth had grazed my lips.

One brief exchange of looks, and I had pinned him to the mattress, while I shoved my tongue down his throat.

“Hmm,” he kept moaning, and I pressed a thumb to his throat to capture the vibrations, while I licked into him; his legs were entwined with mine and my erection was past the ignorable stage.

“Wait a second,” I heard him whisper, but only vaguely. I had come up for air, and he rolled us around and was on top of me, crawling down my body.

“Just look at this, fuck, look at it,” he purred, voice laced with lust. I closed my eyes, because watching meant trouble. He didn’t play around, my Elio: he gave it a broad-tongued lick from root to head then went down on it. For a second, I feared I was having a stroke: it was so good it bordered on pain. I rode the high and came with violent shudders that wouldn’t subside.

Elio muttered something and then he was kissing me, sour with my semen, sweaty and pink-cheeked, and I loved him so much nothing else mattered.

 

“I want to take you away for a few days,” I said, later.

“We are in Venice, the most romantic city in the world,” he replied. “Where would you take me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, somewhere dreary and industrial, maybe,” I joked. “But it doesn’t have to be now. Maybe in the spring, and we could go to the seaside.”

Elio bit into my upper arm.

“Swim, sunbathe and read, that kind of holiday?” he asked.

I placed a hand on his hip. “Being naked a lot of the time,” I winked at him and he groaned.

“A sex holiday, that’s what you want.”

He sounded disgusted but his eyes were sparkling.

“We have wasted so many years,” I said, “Well, I did, not you. And I intend to make up for lost time; if you agree, of course.”

Elio ogled me, from throat to crotch; my spent dick twitched.

“If you are prepared to be ravished, old man,” he said.

“Who are you calling old?” I protested, and tickled his side until he begged me to stop.

 

The afternoon went by like a sort of fever-dream: sore backside, swollen lips, exultant heart. I made a few phone calls, went grocery shopping and visited the Accademia, only to gaze in awe at the Tempest by Giorgione.

At seven, I went to meet Elio outside the Malibran; after he’d said ‘ciao’ to his friends and colleagues I guided him into a side _calle_ and kissed him on the lips.

Maybe I had doubted that he wanted to do it again, because I was surprised when he opened his mouth and let my tongue slip inside.

“I’d forgotten what a greedy kisser you are,” he said, chuckling softly.

“Good or bad thing?” I asked, brushing his jaw with my lips.

“Not sure,” he replied, pulling my hair, “Do it again and I’ll tell you.”

So I did, and again. And again.


	26. Venus in Furs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys experience the moon landing ha ha
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for your constant support!!!! Your comments make me very happy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

We were on our way to Palazzo Barbaro when a tall, slim man called after us.

“Hey, _americani_ ,” he shouted.

Campo Santo Stefano was nearly deserted at that hour, but a few people had congregated by the church. They were all wearing the _moreta_ – the traditional black velvet mask – and long capes.

“It’s started already,” the man said, “Better get out of here.”

His resemblance to Daniel Curtis made his identity obvious, but I didn’t want to leave things to chance.

“Mr Curtis, right?” I asked.

He was smoking a thin green cigarette, probably herbal, and was as tanned as his brother, but a lot less stylish.  I judged that he must have been in his forties, but his eyes appeared younger than the rest of his face; innocent, untainted eyes.

“Call me Ralph, please,” he replied. “Last names are so school-master-ish.”

He led us to the rear of the palace and into the inner courtyard. The time I had been here, I’d been let in from a different entrance, I told him.

“Daniel is a snob and so is Patricia,” he replied, “Boring parties, boring people.”

Elio sniggered. “Oliver was at one of them,” he said.

Our host was unfazed.

“I’m not surprised,” he replied. “If you have money or looks, they are on to you like a plague of locusts.” He examined us briefly. “Yeah, it never fails,” he muttered.

The inner courtyard was illuminated by a string of fairy-lights, but in the summer the vine and the wisteria must have decorated the iron railings of the marble stairway.

The water of Grand Canal shone beyond the darkened arcade. An old gondola rested on its stilts. Ralph waved his hand with a brisk motion.

“Yes, it is ancient and yes, it might have been used by Henry James and Singer Sargent. And no, I don’t want to talk about them.”

“You are not an academic,” I said.

He made a loud clicking noise.

“Waste of time,” he said, “I prefer to devote mine preparing for the future.”

“What do you mean?” asked Elio.

“Nuclear disarmament is my goal,” he replied, “Getting hold of the nuclear fire codes and blasting them into space.”

It sounded mad, but I agreed that it was better than risking a nuclear meltdown. Elio seemed greatly amused.

At the top of the stairs, we took a left towards a heavy mahogany door that led into Ralph’s apartment. His rooms were all painted white and almost devoid of furniture. The place reminded me of a monastery or a clinic.

Elio read the stencilled writing on the wall and laughed. It said ‘Extraterrestrial Search Room.”

Ralph smiled at us, proudly; he was like a child showing us his buried treasure.

In the next room, the Flight Control Centre, three space suits were hung on the wall. On a chair was the monkey costume, while a stuffed monkey was sat on the other chair. On the latter was pinned a tag which read “Monkeyface, Flight Commander, Starship Barbaro.”

“That’s the costume,” he said to Elio. “I no longer need it, since I am done with dressing up.”

It looked heavy but when I picked it up, I was surprised to find it much lighter than I’d anticipated.

“It’s custom made,” Curtis explained, “For space travel. But I guess it will be okay for earthlings too.”

Before the re-enactment of the moon landing, he demanded our forms with the toe prints.

“What will you do with them?” Elio asked.

“Keeping them in my archive until it’s time to send them out,” he replied. “A more propitious era.”

In the Situation Room was a life-size inflatable doll dressed in a boiler suit.

“Only a prop,” he explained. Elio and I exchanged looks of amused bafflement.

He took a stack of audio cassettes from a shelf and took us to the Moon Room.

“Which Apollo would you like?” he asked.

For a moment I thought he was referring to the divinity and I stared at Elio who understood and blushed. Ralph was utterly unaware, his attention devoted to the recordings he had spread out on the surface of a wooden table.

“11, Armstrong, 12, hmm, 13, better not,” he was mumbling, “What about 14: Shepard and his golf balls uh?”

We nodded eagerly and he put the tape into the stereo player.

As the voice of Mission Control intoned the countdown, Ralph leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, so Elio and I did the same.

When it got to zero and then liftoff, the roar of the rockets invaded and shook the room. I sought Elio’s hand and found that it was seeking mine; our fingers entwined and stayed that way until it was over.

“Goodness,” I exclaimed when the noise started to fade. “What do your neighbours think of this?”

My ears popped as I said that. Elio had a finger stuck in his left ear, trying to get it to work again. Ralph had a cat-that-got-cream look.

“They telephone to complain, but since I don’t live here, I don’t really care.”

“That’s a bit selfish isn’t it,” I argued, “Your siblings will take all the flak.”

He laughed heartily.

“They love it,” he said, “They can paint me as the black sheep of the family and use me as the excuse for not allowing those dreary researchers to stay overnight. I’m their guard dog. Beware the crazy brother!”

He took us to the kitchen, which was the Peace Room, and we sat on bar stools while he washed three glasses. I had brought the Pastis with me and had handed Ralph the bottle as soon as we’d entered his apartment.

“Drink up,” he said, once he’d poured the liquor and placed the glasses in front of us. “It’ll settle your stomach.”

We did as told and I was glad to be sitting down. Elio’s eyes bulged and he started coughing.

“Sorry,” Ralph said, “I added some extra kick to it.”

“Yeah, I felt that,” I said, while stroking Elio’s back. “You mentioned that Rose got in touch with you about the costume. Are you two good friends?”

His expression clouded over.

“She was friends with Odile, my ex-wife,” he replied. “My apartment is dedicated to her.”

I had noticed the “OC Wing” tag on the front door, but had not asked about its meaning.

We were silent for a few moments.

“She couldn’t stand the lack of certainty,” he explained. “Married life needs foundations, she kept telling me. Gotta stay in the same place; fill the house with people and objects. I never liked the concept of possessions. I prefer to be the custodian rather than the owner. What do you think?”

He was asking us not like people usually would, as a way of reinforcing their own beliefs; he really wanted to know whether he was right or wrong.

Elio cleared his throat and looked at my hand, which was resting on his thigh.

“It really comes down to what matters most to you,” he replied, “If it’s your principles then you have to find someone who shares them.”

Ralph sighed.

“That’s what Mario told me,” he said.

“Mario Stefani?” I asked, puzzled. They were both originals but in markedly different ways.

“You know him? Haven’t seen him in a while because I was away,” he replied, “Gay as Mardi Gras, of course, but it’s all the same to me.”

He frowned and looked at us, first at me then at Elio.

“Room-mates, hum, okay, I get it. Well, anyway, he said I should find someone who cares for world peace as much as I do. That’s not how love works though; I wish it were.”

His childlike eyes had a forlorn expression that made me sad too.

“But you must have lots of friends,” said Elio, “If you can stay with them instead of owning a house.”

Ralph’s face brightened.

“The whole of Venice,” he replied, “Apart from my family, that is. But who cares about that, right? Our family is the one we choose.”

“Let’s drink to that!” exclaimed Elio.

“But this time, no extra kick,” I interjected.

 

We took a water-taxi home and the driver – used as he was to Carnival oddities – didn’t appear to notice the monkey costume I was holding in my arms.

Elio talked to it as though it were a person. He had given it the name of Baby, which troubled me at first, when I thought he was addressing me and not ‘it’.

“Baby, are you alright?” he asked, scratching the fur.

I glared at him and he waggled his eyebrows at me.

“Stop it,” I hissed.

“Is Oliver squeezing you too tightly, baby?”

“I said stop it.”

“Or else,” he said, softly. “What will you do?”

“Wait until we are home,” I replied.

That seemed to shut him up, but his hand slid between ‘baby’ and me, and travelled down the front of my coat, while he hummed appreciatively.

“So furry,” he cooed, “I love furry things, don’t you?”

I bit my tongue and ignored the pressure between my legs.

 

“What the hell,” I barked, as soon we got home.

Elio was folded in two, giggling like a loon.

“It’s Carnival, no one cares,” he replied. He took the monkey suit from my arms and strode towards my bedroom.

“Gonna try it on,” he shouted.

I went to relieve myself and brush my teeth, and when I came out the bathroom, Elio was standing there, clad in monkey fur. The front zip was all undone and underneath the costume, he was naked.

“What have you done with the head?” I managed to ask.

“It’s removable,” he replied, “Concealed press studs.”

I nodded gravely, as if I cared.

My hands were already on his chest, my thumbs circling his nipples. He closed his eyes and threw his head back. His neck seemed even whiter, surging from all that shiny fur. I licked a broad stripe from collarbone to jaw and nibbled his earlobe.

“Baby,” I whispered, and felt him shudder. “Let me take you to bed.”

He nodded so I picked him up and carried him there.

 

“You don’t need to do this,” he muttered, “I can take care of myself.”

I was wiping the pool of semen – both his and mine – off his chest, because Elio couldn’t keep his eyes open.

“You have been working and I haven’t,” I replied, “Plus I enjoy doing it.”

The costume had been discarded and thrown on a chair.

“Need to brush my teeth,” he murmured.

I helped him into his pyjama and kissed his lips.

“Back in a second,” he said, suppressing a yawn.

While he was gone, I thought about what had just happened, how intense it had been: mouths, hands, bites, scratches, tongues, saliva; sore sated flesh. Happiness.

 

The following day I’d intended to look for my costume without Rose’s help. Elio left for the Conservatory and I was leafing through the yellow pages when someone knocked at the door. It was the last person I’d expected to see: Jane Ryland. She was wearing a mink coat and a matching hat and looked very chic and at the same time, slightly overdressed.

I was still in my robe, but at least it was tightly belted and I was wearing boxers underneath it.

“Sorry to barge in uninvited,” she said, sounding the opposite of apologetic. “I wished to talk to you about something and I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

I offered her coffee, but she declined.

In the living room, we sat opposite each other and I waited for her to tell me why she was there. It didn’t take long and she didn’t beat about the bush.

“Darling Olga stayed with us and she told us how helpful you were, placing her documents into storage.”

“It’s only a temporary measure,” I replied, “I saw that she was worried, after what had happened to her.”

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

I told her and as I did so, I observed her closely. She didn’t seem surprised.


	27. Witching Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No idea what to say about this chapter apart from: mind the feels and the fluff.
> 
> Oliver's POV

Pino came up to me while I was locking the _portone_.

“I got your information,” he said. “Let me take you wherever you are going.”

I told him that I was heading to the Querini Stampalia palace and he replied that it was fine, he had time to spare.

It was a cloudy day but not too cold.

“When I said I had it,” Pino started, once we were gliding along the Rio San Felice near the Ca’ d’Oro, “It wasn’t accurate: what I meant was that no one knows anything, which is extraordinary.”

“Is it?” I enquired, trying not to sound as disappointed as I felt.

Pino laughed. “Of course it is! There’s not many of us and we all know each other. Sometimes a foreigner moves here and brings a boatman with them, but that’s not often. And when it does happen, we soon get the measure of him. But in your case, not a single trace. A one-off, which means taking a risk, which means _tanti schei_ ,” he brushed thumb and forefinger together, “Money, a lot of it,” he explained.

“You don’t think that the boat could belong to a hotel then?”

He shook his head, “Nah,” he replied, “If I had to bet on it, I’d say one of the big Palazzi. They have plenty of space to hide a boat.”

I remembered the gondola at Palazzo Barbaro: it had been resting on stilts near the courtyard and its existence was only known to those who frequented the palace.

I thanked him and he re-assured me of his discretion.

A multitude of thoughts battled inside my head, but they’d have to wait their turn.

“I was thinking of renting a costume,” I said, “Nothing too complicated: a king’s outfit. Any suggestion would be welcome.”

“Easiest thing in the world,” he said, “My brother in law has a shop in Calle de Noel. He usually sells postcards and souvenirs, but not during Carnival.”

“It’s not too late, I hope. I need it for Friday,” I said.

He guffawed.

“It’s always the same,” he commented, “Like buying Christmas presents: most people leave it to the last minute. Don’t worry: he’ll have what you need; I’ll make sure of it.”

He slapped me on the back and I thanked him again.

 

Rudy was wearing a pair of cotton gloves and cataloguing one lot of Delft flower pyramids.

“They look like Chinese pagodas,” I said.

“They date back to the 17th century, when Holland went tulip-crazy,” he replied. “These belonged to the Loredan family. It was kind of them to bequeath them to us.”

I imagined there would be plenty of competition.

“The Loredans owned five palaces,” he explained, “Some were sold but the furnishings were donated to several museums, including the Fondazione.”

I watched him work for a while, until he removed his gloves and invited me to his private office. He offered me a drink and I accepted a glass of fizzy water.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, a smile crinkling his eyes.

“I had a visit from your friend Jane,” I replied. “She knows I have the papers and is not happy about it, to use an understatement. I even thought she was about to search the apartment, knock me out, and take them away.”

He snorted. “Not her modus operandi,” he argued. “She’d hire someone to do it.”

“I suppose you’re right, which is why I need to move them to the place I have rented out on purpose. I don’t want people to know, so I need your help.”

“The only way is to carry them with trolleys.”

“It can be done without crossing bridges and no one will see us if we do it tonight.”

My friend’s eyes widened.

“We?” he repeated, “What about Elio?”

“You have seen him,” I said, “He’s not strong enough and besides I don’t want him to injure his hands. I’ll explain it to him; he’ll understand.”

“If you say so,” he replied. “What time should I be there?”

“Is 2am too late or too early?”

“Great,” he smiled, “I’ll drink a vat of coffee.”

He added that he’d bring some old blankets to cover the boxes.

“You and Elio are doing okay otherwise,” he said. It didn’t sound like a question.

“Yes,” I didn’t try to hide how happy I was. “And now we have joined the Barbaro Project, toe prints and all.”

“I knew his wife Odile,” said Rudy. “She was beautiful and not very faithful.”

“Maybe it was just gossip,” I suggested.

“Don’t tell anyone, but she tried to kiss me once, during a party. Well, it was more than that, considering her hand was on my crotch.”

That was my chance and I intended to take it. After all, we were friends and he knew all about my sexual preferences.

“Were you tempted?”

I didn’t look at him but gazed into the bottom of my glass. I heard him snigger.

“She had a very boyish figure but something was missing.”

“Oh?”

“You’re not the only one who likes cock, but I prefer them older.”

“How much older,” I asked.

He sighed, but I saw that he was still smiling.

“Okay, I guess it’s fair,” he said, “I had a _thing_ with Daniel Curtis.”

“He’s not old, he’s about my age!”

“Oliver, I hate to shatter your illusions, but you look older than your age.”

I scowled which amused him even more.

“Daniel is the opposite: he looks way younger than his years. He’s forty-one.”

“I don’t look forty.”

“Let’s say you could both pass for thirty-five.”

“And if you met Elio in the street---”

“On a good day, he could easily get away with pretending of being sixteen.”

“Thanks for nothing,” I spat out.

He laughed and laughed.

“Seriously Oliver, who cares?” he said, when he’d calmed down. “You love him and he loves you. I’ve noticed the way you look at each other: fires have been started with less heat. I put myself in his shoes and imagine what I’d have felt if a man like you had come to stay when I was a teenager.”

"You told me once that you got bored with older people when you were an adolescent."

He blinked. "I lied, sorry. Force of habit."

“Would you have spoken or waited for him to give you a sign?”

He pondered my question for a moment.

“I don’t know; it’s hard to say. But I doubt I’d have had the guts to reach out and touch. You have been so lucky.”

“Yes, more than I deserve,” I replied, “And you and Daniel, is it over?”

For a split second, Rudy looked bereft.

“Who knows? We both travel a lot and we’re both busy. He likes to sleep around and I’ve been there, done that, and got tired of it.”

“Have you told him?”

“Not in so many words, but I’m sure that he knows.”

It was my turn to sigh.

“Take my advice: do not assume anything until you have spelt it out, loud and clear. Are you going to his Carnival party? We got our invitation already.”

“Yes, I’ll be there, of course.”

“Talk to him,” I insisted. “You’ll be both wearing masks.”

“It will be like a farce: I’ll tell the wrong person.”

I chuckled. “As long as it’s not Elio, I don’t mind.”

 

Elio was not as understanding as I told Rudy he would be. In fact, he was the exact opposite of that.

“I’m not going to stay in bed while you go out in the middle of the night.”

He was stabbing at the pizza Margherita that I’d bought for him at the best pizzeria in Cannaregio.  

“I’m going with Rudy and it won’t take more than an hour,” I explained. “What’s the use of you catching cold for no reason?”

“I’m not the one who got sick twice in a month.”

“I’ll wrap up warm and take a hot shower as soon as I am back.”

He popped a lump of melted mozzarella in his mouth and for a while he was busy chewing it. When he spoke again, he was resolute.

“I’m coming with you,” he said, “I can put some of the papers in my big suitcase. I carried it to the hotel, so I can do the same again. It’s got wheels.”

“I thought you were working tomorrow morning.”

“The Conservatory is shut until Lent,” he replied, “I’m sure I told you that.”

He had, but it was worth a try.

We went to bed early, intending to get some sleep before the dreaded witching hour.

“Simone didn’t try to see you again?” I asked him.

We were tucked up in bed, and Elio was sprawled on top of me.

“He got the message,” he murmured, as he played with my chest-hair. “I don’t want to be reminded of all the bad sex I had,” he went on, and then his mouth was on my throat, “Only good sex from now on.”

“You’ll jinx us,” I joked, “What if I can get it up: will you kick me out of bed?”

He giggled. “I couldn’t kick you out of anything, you are too heavy.”

“Rudy said I look old.”

Elio raised his head to check whether I was kidding.

“He may be your friend but he’s an idiot,” he said, “You’re fucking perfection.”

“Come here,” I whispered, and pulled him closer so that I could kiss him.

He licked my lips then he bit them.

“We should be sleeping,” I said, but he’d already sneaked one hand inside my boxer shorts.

“The jinx didn’t work,” he whispered, and he was right: I was already half-mast.

I suggested a quickie and he let me yank his pants down: his cock sprang up and my mouth watered.

“You want it?” he husked. I hummed and was about to suck on it when he shoved me away.  It was liked being punched in the solar plexus.

“Why,” I whimpered, but Elio was already straddling my chest.

“Say no if you don’t want this,” he warned, but I had no intention of backing out.

He gripped his sex and tapped my lips with it. I opened my mouth and a moment later he was inside; just the head, at first, but after the first greedy suck, he grabbed the headboard and started thrusting. I held his ass in both my hands but without exerting pressure.  It was when he felt me gagging that he pulled out and then took me in his arms and muttered apologies and endearments.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, while he massaged my neck.

After that, there was no convincing him that my throat was all better and that I wanted his cock down it. It wasn’t all bad, though, because I got to caress him and kiss him until he fell asleep.

 

The alarm clock went off at a quarter to two. As mentioned before, Elio was never a morning person; he hated waking up when it was dark outside, and it was even worse in winter.

“Stay here,” I whispered into his hair. I replaced my body with my pillow and he wrapped his arms and legs around it.

I got up, put on my robe and went to the bathroom. I was preparing coffee when the doorbell rang. I buzzed Rudy in: he had brought with him a folding trolley and those black scratchy blankets one associates with prison cells.

“We use these to transport glass,” he explained.

I poured him a cup of coffee. “Drink it while I get dressed,” I said, as I headed out of the kitchen.

As I entered the bedroom, I collided with Elio, who was dragging his feet like they weighed a tonne each.

“You don’t have to come,” I said, stroking his hair.

“Shut up,” he growled. “Can’t talk, it’s too bloody cold.”

“Go back to bed,” I replied, but he was already gone, leaving behind the traces of his lovable grumpiness.

 

We were loading the boxes onto the trolleys while Elio was drinking his second mug of espresso. He had been talking in monosyllables and staring at Rudy, but I knew that it was only a matter of time.

“Oliver doesn’t look old,” he snarled.

Rudy laughed. “No, you are right, he doesn’t.”

“And I hate going out at this hour when it’s freezing, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

My friend eyed him with sudden fondness. “I was sure of it,” he said.


	28. Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was always planned, but I wasn't sure when to spring it on you.
> 
> I guess the time is now...
> 
> Elio/Oliver/Elio

Venice was like a Turner landscape at that hour: foggy and eerily quiet. Even the revellers had gone home, or perhaps fallen asleep in alleys and _portegos_.

After three cups of espresso, I felt quasi-human again.

The building in the Old Ghetto wasn’t far from our apartment, but since the salon was on the first floor, Oliver decided to leave the boxes in the inner courtyard.

“I’ll stay here,” I suggested. He and Rudy were going to collect the second and final batch of papers and there was no reason for me to accompany them.

“Are you sure?” Oliver asked, a line forming between his eyebrows.

“I’ll go upstairs and explore the place,” I replied.

He seemed reluctant but Rudy insisted it would be a matter of minutes, which was of course true.

I climbed the marble staircase, unlocked the door, switched on the lights and entered the salon.

 

The first thing that caught my attention was the temperature: I’d expected it to be chilly, but it was mild and dry. Evidently Oliver had taken care of the heating, I thought, and felt stupidly proud of him, as though he’d performed a magic trick.

There weren’t many furnishings aside from a mahogany desk and a couple of chairs with faded upholstery. The wallpaper was in the same shade of ash rose, but less anaemic.

I was at the window gazing into the night when they returned.

We spent some time lugging the boxes up the stairs and when we were done, I was no longer cold but I was exhausted. I collapsed on a chair and Oliver sat next to me, massaging my hands.

Rudy looked pristine and tidy, not a hair out of place.

He didn’t want to intrude on our privacy, I guessed, so he carried the boxes to the far side of the room.

“What will you do about the inventory?” I asked.

“Rudy will take care of it,” he replied. “He knows the right people.”

“Olga said she would find someone.”

He sighed. “I know, but she hasn’t done it so far.”

I caressed his face. “She’s over ninety,” I said, “She’s entitled to be slow.”

“How’s your new Vivaldi transcription going?”

“Getting there,” I replied, “I am also quite slow.”

“Twenty-four going on ninety,” he joked. I pulled his hair and he laughed.

“Let’s go home,” he announced loudly, to capture his friend’s attention.

Rudy came over to us.

“Lovely building,” he said, “Pity about the windows: functional they may be, but what an eyesore. This is pretty,” he went on, and caressed the wallpaper.

It reminded me of Oliver, and all the times he’d done the same back at the villa as he went up and down the stairs. Oliver must have realised what I was thinking of because he looked at me and smiled.

“What?” Rudy asked.

“Oliver used to stroke the wallpaper at my parents’ villa,” I explained.

“Who hasn’t done that?” he chuckled.

It was nothing, it should have been just a casual remark, but it was the way he’d blinked after he’d said it that made me wonder; as though he’d caught himself too late.

“Have you been there?” I asked.

“I meant it in a general way,” he replied, but he wasn’t looking me in the eye.

Something inside of me crumbled into a million pieces. I should have known, I thought, bitterly; all the clichés and common phrases, all the banalities and truisms came to me, along with a rush of bile. It couldn’t even be dignified as a puzzle, it was as clear as day, it had been from the start if only I’d bothered to pay attention.

“You know my father, don’t you?” I hissed. I didn’t even _see_ Oliver, as though he’d melted into the background.

Rudy wasn’t the type who lied when confronted directly with the truth; omissions, yes, but never outright mendacity.

“Yes, I do,” he replied, softly, “I stayed at your villa two summers ago.”

The summer of 1988 I had been in France, visiting _maman_ ’s family; getting wasted on the sly, sleeping with strangers whose faces I didn’t remember; being unhappy, hollow and dry as a husk. Plots had been hatched behind my back, and wasn’t it the story of my fucking life?

“Elio, please wait,” I heard Oliver’s voice, but it was white noise.

“Stay away from me, both of you,” I shouted, and ran out the room and down the stairs. I only drew breath when I was outside.

 

 

It was like in a novel: the hyperbole of one’s world being turned upside down. Except that it was real and it was happening to me.

Elio had left and I prayed that he’d gone to the Fenice Hotel and not fallen into the Grand Canal.

Rudy had come with me, despite my attempts to dissuade him.  Back home, he’d convinced me to sit down and discuss things with him.

“I have no time for you,” I spat out, “I need to find him and tell him the truth.”

“Let him calm down,” Rudy replied. “And you too need to do the same.”

“Don’t tell me how I should feel,” I barked. “You set me up, no, worse than that, you set us both up. And like an idiot, I did not suspect a thing.”

I could have slapped myself.

“All those coincidences: meeting you at the Mendoza, you inviting me here, sending me to the opera, fabricating ways so that Elio and I could be together,” I said, “And I never questioned you, never doubted your honesty.”

“I only wanted what was best for you, both of you,” he replied.

I tugged at my hair, feeling the ghost of Elio’s touch.

“It wasn’t up to you or to Elio’s parents to decide: how do you not fucking see that? And how did it go, please tell me: were you waiting for my marriage to implode, keeping tabs on Carole and me?”

He shook his head. “After what Samuel had told me---”

I recalled what Rudy had told me about his love life.

“Samuel, is it?” I sneered. “When you said you liked them older, you weren’t lying.”

“What, no, that’s not what I meant,” he said, “Come on, you are talking about a happily married man! I would never---”

“You’d never what, break up a marriage? I wouldn’t put it past you,” I shouted.

For the first time that night, he lost his temper. It was a rare occurrence, and it stunned me into silence.

“When I invited you here, your marriage was over,” he said, glaring at me. “Professor Perlman told me about you and Elio. Not in detail, but he said he was convinced you two had found something precious, a once in a lifetime bond that couldn’t be sundered. Do you have any idea what those parents went through, hmm? Their son was so unhappy he almost killed himself.”

I shuddered and tried to speak but couldn’t.

“And you were not happy either, were you,” he continued. “And I am not talking recently: you had been sleepwalking through life ever since you left him.”

He took out a packet of Gauloises and lit one. His hands were steady, but he’d lost some of his poise.

He didn’t offer me one, but I took it all the same.

“How come you went to Italy?” I asked, after a while.

“You seem to forget that Professor Perlman is a renowned academic. His reputation precedes him, as they say. I needed someone to verify a couple of pieces bequeathed to the Fondazione and his name came up. I got in touch with him and he invited me to stay with them.”

“And my name came up,” I said.

“Your name came up,” he repeated, “It was on the second, no, the third evening. There was a thunderstorm and the lights went out. Annella was looking for a book to read and she found that tale about the knight who doesn’t know whether to speak or---”

“Whether to speak or to die.”

“Yes, that one,” he said. “She started to cry and that’s when I found out about you and Elio.”

I bit down on my cigarette. “What a small world,” I said, “Of all the villas in the world, you had to stumble upon that one.”

“Maybe he knew that I was your friend,” he conceded. “It has crossed my mind, yes, but what does it matter? He did not force my hand in any way. He loves his son and he loves you too.”

“You knew what Elio was going through and you did nothing.”

He stubbed the cigarette out.

“It wasn’t up to me to do anything at the time.”

“But you kept in touch with the Perlmans.”

He nodded.

“And when you found out I was done with Carole, you seized the day.”

“Carpe diem,” he murmured.

Outside, the sky was no longer dark. Another day was about to start and Elio was not with me.

 

The _pensione_ and Vendetta had been my first choice, but I thought better of it. It would also be the first place Oliver would search and I didn’t want to make a scene in public. I also had to rehearse on a piano and I needed a change of clothes.

Olga was already awake when I knocked at her door.

“You look like you need a cup of something hot and a bath,” she said.

One tends to forget that old people have been young and that they have gone through most experiences and survived them, but I did not make that mistake with Olga. When she asked, I told her the truth, or at least part of it.

“Oliver did something terrible, so I don’t want to see him or talk to him,” I told her.

“There’s the room next to Larry’s,” she replied, “You can stay there as long as you like. And he can lend you some clothes, since you are more or less the same size.”

She ran me a bath and while I was soaking in it, sipping a mug of hot chocolate, she sat on a chair and listened to my story.

“It certainly looks bad,” she commented, “And I never could stand those who interfere in other people’s relationships.”

“But?”

She frowned and tilted her head to the side, like a delicate bird.

“But I don’t believe your game-keeper was plotting in the wings,” she said, “He’s not that subtle, my dear. That boy wears his heart on his sleeve.”

I sniggered. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s a great dissimulator.”

Olga laughed. “That he’s most certainly not,” she replied, with great conviction. “Anyone with a modicum of sense and a pair of eyes can see that boy is crazy about you. He wouldn’t have waited for months and months to come and see you.”

“He lied to me once already and very convincingly, when he pretended he didn’t have a fiancée waiting for him back in the States.”

“Did he lie to you or to himself?” she argued. “The way I see it, he was probably trying to forget she ever existed. Ezra did that with his wife most of the time. He’d tell people I was his partner and the first time I caught him, I confronted him; you should have seen the look on his face. A grown man and a genius, yet he was like a cornered rat.”

“A rat,” I agreed with vehemence, “That’s what Oliver is.”

She seemed to consider my words.

“I don’t think so,” she said, finally. “Maybe he’s not as brave as you’d like him to be, but he’s here with you and not in the States with his wife.”

“Perhaps he just feels sorry for me,” I ventured.

She laughed again. “You are not stupid enough to believe that, are you? In that case, I’d like my Vivaldi piece back.”

I smiled, even though it still hurt a little to do so. “Not a chance,” I replied.


	29. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk...
> 
> Oliver's POV

I curbed the impulse to call Professor Perlman and give him a piece of my mind. I had no right to be angry with him: after all, he’d only been looking out for his beloved son. My anger evaporated and was replaced by sadness.

I told Rudy to go home, that we weren’t done talking about this, but I had to find Elio and bring him back to me.

It was a few minutes past eight and I was coming out of the shower when the phone rang. I ran to it and skidded on the marble floor: I collided with the armchair and my toes crashed into one of its legs. It hurt like hell, but I managed to limp to the phone just in time.

“Hello, is that Oliver?”

It was a man and he was whispering.

“Yes, who’s calling? I can hardly hear you.”

“It’s Larry,” he replied, not raising his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you, but Elio is here. I think Olga knew I was gonna call, but never mind that. They are practising now.”

“I owe you one,” I said, “See you shortly.”

“No you won’t,” he replied. “I’m going out, just in case.”

We said goodbye and I put the receiver down. Two of my toes were throbbing and I wasn’t looking forward to having to wear shoes, but I couldn’t wear flip-flops in February.

 

I had the spare key Olga had given me, but I decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to use it.

She opened the door after the fifth or sixth knock, and smiled at me.

“Larry’s a dear,” she said, “Always on the side of the angels. Come in, you look like you just got hit by a truck.”

“I haven’t slept much,” I replied. “And I may have broken a couple of toes.”

She arched her eyebrows and didn’t comment.

“Elio’s in there,” she said, “Time for my mid-morning beauty nap.”

I hesitated a moment, and listened to the piece Elio was playing, which I’d never heard before.  It must have been the transcription of the Vivaldi composition Olga had gifted him. I couldn’t let him continue or he might accuse me of yet another crime.

I cleared my throat; he stopped for an instant then he went on and kept at it until he was done. He didn’t turn around.

“I know that you weren’t,” he started; his voice broke then he continued, “Rudy did not tell you about me. I thought about it--- well, Olga made me and she’s right: you wouldn’t lie like that.”

I drew a deep breath and the ache in my chest subsided.

“No, I would not--- will not,” I said. “What he did was inexcusable. His motives were good but he should have told me.”

“What would you have done in that case?”

I walked into the room and sat on the couch.

“Come and sit with me, please,” I said.

Elio stood up and looked at me. “Say please again.”

“Please,” I repeated.

He nodded and a moment later I had a lapful of Elio. He smelled of vanilla soap and chocolate milk. I hugged him tightly and breathed him in, while he raked his fingers through my hair, grazing the nape of my neck with his fingernails.

“You wouldn’t have come to Venice if you’d known about my health problems,” he whispered.

“Maybe not,” I conceded. “I’d have concluded you’d be better off without me.”

“But I am not,” he said, licking the shell of my ear, “I am not and could never be better off without you.”

He took my face in his hands and pressed his lips to mine. I slipped my tongue inside his mouth and he teased it until I moaned deep in my throat and then he surrendered.

Ages later, we were lying on the sofa, he on top of me, and we talked without constraints.

“In a way, I’m glad he did it because I’m here with you,” I said, as I stroked Elio’s back, “But I find it hard to accept that he was at the villa and slept in your bed, or in mine. I feel like he tried to usurp my memories, our memories.”

He mouthed at my collarbone and nodded. “It’s like something sacred had been defiled.”

“Yes, that’s it,” I agreed.

“But maybe it needed doing,” he went on, his breath tickling the skin of my throat.

“What do you mean?”

His hand closed around my upper arm and squeezed.

“We kept those memories under wraps because they were the only thing we had left,” he explained. “But now we have this and tomorrow and the rest of our lives, if we want to.”

“I certainly want to,” I replied, rubbing the swell of his buttocks.

“Hmm, me too,” he said, as he bit the underside of my jaw.

We lost the trail of our thoughts, in between kisses and caresses. It would have continued like this for a while hadn’t Elio placed his foot on mine.

“Ouch,” I cried and he immediately asked what was wrong so I told him.

“I know what you need,” he exclaimed, and removed my socks before I could protest.

“Olga might come in,” I argued, but it was half-hearted at best.

“She wouldn’t mind,” he replied.

He massaged my foot and when I closed my eyes, he took the injured toes in his mouth and suckled them, first one then the other.

“You gotta stop,” I pleaded, when I felt his hand travel up my thigh.

“No need to,” he replied. “Olga’s prepared a room for me. There is a bed,” he winked.

“Make up sex,” I said.

“Who said anything about sex,” he bit back, but with a twinkle in his eye.

 

In the end, we didn’t have any sex at all, but I was not going to complain: Elio fell asleep in my arms, his mouth on my neck and his ass in my hand.

He woke up all of a sudden, his hair sticking in every direction.

“What time is it?” he shouted.

I opened one eye to check my watch. “Ten past midday,” I muttered.

He jumped up like he’d been shot from a cannon.

“Penultimate day of rehearsals,” he said, “I can’t be late.”

“When do you start?”

“Two,” he replied, “Wake up, we gotta go home. I need to shower and change. How’s your foot?”

I flexed my toes: they still hurt but not as badly.

“You see?” he beamed. “I’ve got magic healing powers.”

I couldn’t disagree with that.

 

Olga treated us as though nothing had happened, and we hadn’t just slept upstairs in one of her rooms. She asked me if the ‘other business’ had gone well – to which I replied that yes, all had gone according to plan – and told Elio that she’d see him tomorrow at the final rehearsal. That was going to be from morning until early afternoon, because everybody needed time to get ready for the party at Palazzo Barbaro.

“Are you coming?” Elio asked, and she laughed. “One of the prerogatives of being ancient is that one can say no without appearing discourteous.”

 

When Elio left for the Malibran, I headed to Calle de Noel.

It was a minuscule alley dotted with shops whose main characteristic was to be crammed to the rafters with merchandise.

Pino’s brother’s shop was no exception: the window was packed with masks, capes and other Carnival paraphernalia.

The man himself was the opposite of his brother: he was rotund and sat among his wares like a fat spider at the centre of his net.

I told him who I was and he treated me like family.

“Come with me,” he said, “Let’s go round the back, I’ll show you what I have.”

‘Round the back’ was an inner courtyard decked out with rails upon rails of colourful costumes: super-heroes, vampires, animals, cadavers with knifes protruding from chests or backs, cartoon characters, and more outlandish disguises such as a toothbrush costume with its toothpaste companion. Some of them had tags pinned on: those were no longer available.

“What sort of king were you thinking of,” he enquired, “France, England or just one from a story?”

I hadn’t really thought about it.

“The crown shouldn’t be too heavy,” I replied.

“Oh no, they’re not made of solid metal don’t worry,” he said, laughing. “It’s either paste or papier-mâché.”

He showed me a selection and I chose one that most closely matched Elio’s costume: it was a floor-length black and gold-studded tunic with a high collar made of black feathers. The crown was a medieval fleur-de-lis affair which I had picked because it fitted me perfectly. When I looked at myself in the mirror, my face gazed back at me, out of place among all that finery.

“You’ll have to wear this too,” Pino’s brother said, handing me a gold and macramé mask that would cover the top half of my face.

After I’d thanked him and paid him, he placed the costume into a cardboard box and asked whether I wanted it delivered and where.

“I’ll take it with me,” I said. I had to make sure Elio wouldn’t find it so that I could surprise him.

 

I was replacing my suitcase on top of the armoire in the second spare room when Larry turned up.

He was wearing his Panama hat and a jacket lined with Mongolian goat fur.

“I’m on my way back from Burano,” he said.

“You took a detour.”

He sighed. “Okay, you got me,” he admitted. “I was curious to see if you were alright.”

“It’s all good,” I replied. “Thanks again for calling me.”

“No problem,” he said. “Have you thought about my suggestion of posing for me, the two of you?”

“We have been busy but I don’t see why not,” I replied. “When Carnival is over, we could arrange something. We could do it here, unless you have somewhere else in mind.”

He smiled, “Maybe I have,” he said, “But I’m not going to say anything more about it until you’ve spoken to Elio. By the way, are you going to the party?”

I told him yes and asked him about his attire.

“I’m going as the sun and my friend as the moon. Instead of wearing the traditional masks, I’ll paint both our faces. I have a wonderful headdress with rays and his has silvery spikes.”

He enquired about our costumes, and I explained about the King of Greece and the monkey. His face lit up.

“I could paint you in your costumes,” he exclaimed, “It’ll always remind you of your time here in Venice.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, but I’d have to discuss all of it with Elio.

 

Before Elio’s return there was one last thing I needed to do.

I knew that I’d find Rudy at Palazzo Grimani, because he’d told me he’d be working there until evening.

When he saw me, he took me into the staff room. He offered me coffee, but I refused.

“Have you seen Elio?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s fine; we are fine,” I replied, “But it doesn’t mean that what you did wasn’t incredibly stupid and underhand.”

“I know, but if you think about it, I only gave you a nudge in the right direction.”

I shook my head. “It’s not even that, not as much as the fact that you knew things about Elio before I did; that you were there in the same villa---- by the way, which bed did you sleep in?”

“The single bed in the small room,” he replied.

I heaved a sigh of relief: at least it hadn’t been Elio’s bed.

“I wouldn’t have slept in his bed,” he went on, reading my thoughts. “And anyway his parents are no longer allowing guests to use Elio’s room.”

“Oh?”

“Elio vetoed it since after you left, according to Annella.”

I swallowed my tears and looked away.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” I asked.

“The Perlmans love you, Oliver. They don’t believe that what happened to Elio was your fault. They miss their son but they miss you, too.”

 


	30. Wings of a Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pre-party interlude of smut and fluff. Enjoy!!!!!!
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coriandoli = confetti  
> Stelle filanti = streamers  
> Crostoli = a Carnival fried pastry with a dozen different names including chiacchiere and frappe.

 

The next few days were going to be busy so we agreed to have an early night.

I was buying groceries in Rialto when I heard a familiar voice calling my name.

“It’s been a while,” said Mario. He was wearing purple shoes and matching braces and was carrying a bag filled with books.

I concurred that we hadn't met for too long and he invited me for an aperitif at a nearby _osteria._

As we nibbled olives and pistachios, we talked about the Carnival so I told him about my costume. I expected him to be only vaguely interested, but he delved into the topic with great gusto.

“And the shoes, what will you wear?”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” I replied. “A pair of sneakers, maybe. They will be covered by the dress anyway.”

He made a scandalised face.

“You can’t be serious,” he exclaimed. “You need a pair of velvet slippers.”

I laughed so loudly a few people turned their heads in our direction.

“Have you seen my feet?” I said, indicating my extremities. “Where will I find slippers in my size?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that,” he replied. “I know just the place.”

Before I could think of an objection, he dragged me out into the evening fog.

“It’s not far,” he said, “Close to my apartment.”

The shop was not unlike that of Pino’s brother and it was situated along a similar secluded alley named Calle del Scalater.

“I buy all my shoes from Savino,” he said, and judging by his outlandish choice of footwear, it wasn’t much of a recommendation.

As it turned out, the shop was closed, or at least that was the message on the card affixed on the door: ‘ _chiuso_ ’.

“Never mind,” I said, but Mario was already knocking and shouting Savino’s name.

“He’s having his dinner,” he told me, and it must have been the case because when the man finally appeared, he smelled of garlic and onions.

It was a bearded mountain of a man with a booming voice and a wheezy laugh.

He and Mario chatted in Venetian for a while then Savino examined my feet with a critical eye and nodded.

“I have just exactly what you need,” he declared, and started rummaging among a stack of colourful boxes.

“Ah!” he shouted, as he pulled out a striped box.

The slippers reminded me of Aladdin: they were pointy and embroidered in gold over black velvet. I tried them on and they were the right fit.

“Walk around, see how you feel in them,” Mario suggested.

They were comfortable as well as ridiculous. Elio was going to mock me until the end of time, I thought, and that made me smile to myself.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll take them.”

Mario was happier than Savino, who was evidently in a hurry to get back to his dinner.

“You didn’t tell me about your costume,” I said, once the shop door closed behind us.

“That’s because I want to surprise you,” Mario replied. “Part of the fun is not telling your friends so they’ll have to guess.”

“Too late for me,” I joked.

He looked at me and smirked. “You can hardly disguise your height,” he said.

We parted ways in Campo San Giacomo, where a group of kids were throwing _coriandoli_ and _stelle filanti_. The confetti stuck to the wet cobblestones like tiny mosaic tiles.

When I got home, Elio was already there, dressed in my black robe.

He came up to me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“I got us _cròstoli_ ,” he said, as elated as a puppy.

The fried pastries with their abundant dusting of icing sugar were laid out on a fine porcelain tray.

“Was it you or Emilia?” I enquired.    

He rolled his eyes. “All right, you win,” he sighed. “But I was the one who suggested it.”

“A very good idea,” I conceded. I handed him the bags of groceries, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the other, larger, one. I was slinking out of the kitchen when he called me back.

“Wait, wait, not so fast Mister,” he said, “What’s in that pretty box?”

I tried my best ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look, but he wasn’t taken in.

“Something for tomorrow night,” I replied, and immediately realised he’d conclude it was a present for him. Damn, I should have bought him a pair too, I thought. I made a note to return to the shop in the morning.

He beamed and bit his lower lip. “Is that your crown?” he asked. “I have been daydreaming of you in nothing but a crown on your head.”

“Have you?”

“Hmm,” he murmured, as he stroked my chest.

“Let me just--” I started, but he grabbed me and kissed me, hard. I dropped the bag on the floor and wrapped him in my arms. He tasted of sugar and wine.

“Have you been drinking?” I asked, when we came up for air.

“We had a little celebration,” he replied. “Foscari brought a couple of bottles of Spumante.”

He accompanied me to the bedroom and told me about his day while I changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. While I was removing my shoes, he tried again to look inside the box.

“Stop it,” I said, half-serious.

He pouted and I’d have tackled him to the mattress had my stomach not made itself heard.

“Food first,” he said, “Gotta keep your strength up.”

 

Over dinner, I told him about my visit to Rudy.

“I’m still not sure how I feel about him doing what he did,” commented Elio. “What would he say if I plotted with one of his exes? By the way, who are they?”

I hesitated.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know because I won’t buy it.”

I decided that at this point Elio and I should have no secrets of any kind.

“Daniel Curtis, of all people,” I replied. “He’s in his forties, apparently.”

Elio whistled. “Wow, he looks much younger.”

“Yeah, he really does,” I agreed.

Elio’s socked foot caressed mine. “Not my type,” he said, “But what happened, why are they no longer together?”

“Too busy, too independent plus Daniel is the playboy type,” I explained.

“Maybe he’s tired of sleeping around.”

I smiled. “That’s what I told Rudy,” I said, “I advised him to speak to him instead of assuming things.”

“And what did he say?”

“He’d do it at the ball, while they are both wearing masks.”

“Sounds like a brilliant plan,” he quipped.

We ate some of the _cròstoli_ and I licked Elio’s fingers clean.

“No, no, no,” he protested, pushing me away. “You still haven’t been punished for what you did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I argued. “It was Rudy’s idea, you said that you believed me.”

“I did, I do,” he replied. “But he’s your friend and you should have guessed he was up to something.”

His foot disappeared and when it reappeared it was between my legs.

“Fuck,” I moaned, and reached out to touch it.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Give me your hand.”

I did, and he sucked the middle finger into his mouth, while the arch of his foot pressed against my sex. I closed my eyes but he opened them again because I needed to see him: his flushed cheeks, the sharp line of his jaw, his lovely white neck. In no time, I found myself close to coming. He felt it and stopped.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said.

It wasn’t coy or seductive: it was an order.

I followed him and he led me to his bedroom.

It was messy but the sheets had been changed. I wanted to point out that the lube was in my room, but it was clear Elio didn’t want me to speak unless spoken to.

He stared into my eyes and without breaking eye contact he shoved my pants down to my ankles. My cock sprang up and I let out a sigh of relief.

Elio’s hands cupped my ass and his mouth was inches from my length; every hot breath was sweet torture.

He licked his lips and I chewed on mine but when he leaned closer, he tongued the crease of my groin and ignored my erection. My knees buckled, but luckily the mattress was behind me and I fell on top of it.

Elio spread my legs wide and settled between them. He had the robe on, but he’d unbelted it so that it was gaping open, displaying his naked body.

I swore and begged at the same time, but he just gave me a wry smile.

“I like this, Oliver,” he murmured, and rucked up my shirt to uncover my stomach. He mouthed at my navel and at the trail of hairs that led to my crotch.

“What, my belly?” I asked, brokenly.

“Hmm,” he moaned, as he nuzzled my groin.

I felt a dull ache in my balls and my cock was dripping. i needed him so badly I could have screamed.

“Please, Elio, please,” I heard myself say, over and over again.

I was about to break down when he shook off his robe and climbed on top of me, upside down.

As he went down on me, the sight of his peachy ass was impossible to resist.

 

 

“You disobeyed me,” he said, afterwards.

I was still swallowing my own come that he had just kissed into my mouth.

“You never said I wasn’t allowed to reciprocate,” I replied, my voice ragged and used up. “And you didn’t tell me to stop.”

I couldn’t have if he’d asked me to, because there was nothing more intoxicating that the feel of his body inviting me in and holding me there. The bitter-sweet taste of his insides was like a delicacy I'd had to go without for far too long.

“Never,” he murmured. He looked serious and very young, with his curls flattened and wet with perspiration and his mouth plump and edged with razor burn.

“Am I forgiven?” I asked, watching him closely but resisting the impulse to stroke him and pet him.

“There was nothing to forgive,” he replied.

 

After we’d cleaned up and moved to my bedroom to sleep, he looked at me with the same serious face.

“We’ve never really talked about you and that’s not fair,” he said.

I took his hand in mine. “You know all the important bits: I got married, lost my libido, inherited some money and got divorced.”

“And the baby?” he asked.

My eyes filled with tears, but I willed them not to spill over.

“It was terrible,” I said, “It was night, we were asleep and suddenly there was all that blood. When the ambulance came, it was too late. It was--- gone.”

“I’m so sorry, Oliver,” he murmured, and hugged me tightly.

I cried then and he comforted me as best as he could. He was the only being in the world that could do that for me. When I could speak again, I told him what I hadn’t told a soul.

“I never wanted kids, not with her, not really, so I felt guilty. I thought I’d made it happen, somehow.”

He caressed my hair and my wet cheeks.

“You didn’t,” he said, “You would have been a great dad.”

“I don’t know, maybe. I’ll never find out, I guess, and it’s all right.”

Elio smiled, shyly. “You said you didn’t want kids _with her_.”

“Or with any other woman,” I said, “If we could find a way, you and I--- then yes, of course.”

He kissed me on the lips, infinitely tender, his own lips soft like the wings of a dove.


	31. Masquerade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You should see him in a crown." 
> 
> It's party time.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

 

In retrospect, that was a very strange day. I spent most of it feeling as though I’d been dragged back in time to the days of Casanova.

The _calli_ of Cannaregio were packed with people in knee breeches, frock coats, buckled shoes and powdered wigs; the man with _bautas_ and the women with _morellos_ or faces painted chalk white. There were mimes at the foot of bridges and sinister-looking figures in capes, which reminded me of Don Giovanni. The sky was lead-grey, that kind which threatens rain but does not deliver it. I was plagued by the sensation that something not entirely benign was about to happen; the threat of danger worried and excited me. After I’d purchased a pair of slippers for Elio, I decided to visit Olga to see how she was doing.

 

“Oh, I didn’t expect to see you,” Rudy said, echoing my reaction.

“I could say the same,” I replied, “I thought you’d be busy with the last minute preparations for the fundraiser.”

“Jane has taken charge,” he explained. “I was glad to let her deal with it.”

Olga was playing the violin in the study so we lingered in the hall.

“We were talking about the inventory of the papers,” he said, “I think Daniel could take care of it.”

I expressed my surprise. “Daniel? He told me he was a man of leisure.”

Rudy smiled, sheepishly.

“Like me, you mean? He may be a flâneur, but he’s a highly educated one. He also happens to be a great admirer of Ezra Pound.”

“Not of his politics, I hope.”

He laughed. “He’s not interested in politics.”

“This is just an excuse to get closer to him,” I joked.

The shot hit home, so I continued. “And you have come to get Olga’s assent so that you can tell Daniel tonight.”

“He won’t want to talk business,” he replied. “He’s the host, he’ll have better things to do.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I quipped, “He may see through your ruse and ravish you.”

He blushed and shuddered at the same time.

“Don’t,” he muttered, and walked away.

 

Olga loved the idea.

“Daniel Curtis is the perfect man for the job,” she enthused. “He’s rich enough not to need the money and he’s both American and Venetian. Jane Ryland couldn’t possibly object to him.”

“I wonder whether she’s given up on the papers,” I said.

“You don’t know her like I do,” she replied. “Once she’s set her sights on something she won’t let it go.”

“She’d never get away with it.”

“This is Venice,” Olga stated, with a mixture of amusement and pride. “Of course she would get away with it. She’d only need to avoid being caught red-handed and that won’t happen.”

 

I was climbing the stairs to my apartment when Rose called me.

“I have told Pino to come and collect us at seven,” she said, “Will that be okay for you two?”

It was twenty past four and Elio was due back at five.

“Perfect,” I replied. “And thanks for thinking of us.”

“I know what you boys are like,” she said, smiling. “You’d walk all the way there and miss part of the fun.”

 

 

At half past five, Elio wasn’t back yet.

I suspected the rehearsals had run late, so I took a shower, ate a slice of pizza and tried on my costume. I recalled Elio’s words and put the crown on first.

I was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, an antique cheval affair, when Elio burst in.

“Sorry, Foscari kept us--- Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed.

I had my socks on, but was otherwise naked and wearing a crown.

“Get out,” I joked, catching his eye in the mirror. “You shouldn’t be seeing me before the event.”

He growled. “This is _the_ fucking event.”

I noted that his eyes were now otherwise occupied.

“Enjoying the view? Sorry about the socks.”

He shook his head, looking a bit manic.

“No, no, you see, the socks are just---hmm.”

Finally he’d come closer, but instead of embracing me, he was cupping my buttocks firmly while he dropped kisses all over my back. I tried to touch him but he made it clear that I better not: instead, I held the sides of the mirror with both hands while he quickly shook off his coat and woollen hat. He was wearing my sweater and a pair of faded jeans.

“What does the king want?” he murmured, as he leaned against my back. The zip of his trousers was cold against my skin, in maddening contrast with the warmth of Elio’s clothed body. He reached around and skimmed my length with the tip of his fingers: I was hard in the blink of an eye.

“You,” I replied, hoarsely.

“Not specific enough, my liege,” he replied, removing his hand.

“Jack me off.”

He chuckled. “Language, Sire!”

“Make me come,” I said, doing my best to make it sound like an order.

“Like this?” he husked, his fingers closing tightly around my sex. His palm was wet with his spit and his other hand was teasing my balls.

“Does this please you?” he asked, after a while. I had trouble not getting down on my knees and begging him, but that wasn’t part of the game.

“Yes, yes,” I cried, thrusting my hips.

He was stroking me the way I liked it, rough and fast, and he got me on the verge of orgasm more than once.

“So fucking hot,” he swore, and bit down on the meat of my shoulder.

I was moaning and calling his name when he stuck his middle finger up my ass, up to the hilt.

“God, yes,” I shouted and spattered the mirror with my load.

 

“You really didn’t mind the socks,” I remarked, as we lay on the bed, entwined.

Elio had stripped down to his underwear and I had sucked him off through the slit in his boxers. He’d laughed, called me impatient, but I had been too hungry to wait a second more.

“They add something filthy, I don’t know,” he replied, “Less worship and more whore.”

I smacked his ass. “Hey, you are talking about your sovereign.”

“Let me remind you that I was the one who bit you to death,” he replied.

I told him about my visit to Olga and Rudy’s idea.

“He can’t stop plotting,” he said, “Maybe he needs a sex holiday too.”

“Oh so you like the idea now?” I teased, as I kissed the tip of his nose.

“Ten days of sex and sunshine never ruined anyone,” he replied.

“What about eleven,” I said, and it was my turn to get a playful slap.

 

Rose and Peter were dressed like courtiers of the _Settecento_ : he had the trademark breeches and silk stockings, while she wore an elaborate dress with low cut bodice and an enormous feathery hat. Her hair had strings of pearls laced through it. Both were wearing satin masks, but hers was bejewelled while Peter’s was plain black.

When they saw us, they couldn’t contain their hilarity.

“You are the oddest couple,” Peter commented, shaking his head.

“Oliver would make a very attractive king,” Rose said, then gazing at Elio, “And you a very believable monkey. What will you do when you get too hot?”

He muttered that he had a plan, which must be true, considering that he’d forbidden me from watching him dress.

 

Pino was waiting for us and I noticed that he’d decorated the gondola with swathes of crimson velvet and – most remarkable of all – that he added a _felze_ to it, so that we wouldn’t be exposed to the cold night air.

He was wearing a black cape and a tricorne hat, but no mask.

“I need to see where I am going,” he explained. “I am no longer used to these old gondolas.”

I’d been growing increasingly excited as the evening approached and gliding over the Grand Canal, surrounded by other gondolas and speedboats with their cargoes of fancy-dressed men and women, I was spellbound by the magic of the occasion and happy that I was sharing it with Elio. We were holding hands, even though in his case it was a furry paw. Venice seemed to have reverted back to the days of the Doges, when Vivaldi was playing for the notables of the Republic and Casanova was leading his adventurous life.

The impression was strengthened upon our arrival at the landing platform of Palazzo Barbaro: the vaulted gothic windows were ablaze with candle-light.

Costumed guests were already standing on balconies, drinks in hand.

There was a carpeted platform flanked by torches and the entry hall was illuminated by gilt-framed lanterns hanging from the vaulted ceiling.

Daniel stood at the bottom of the majestic marble staircase leading to the _piano nobile_ , greeting his guests. He was dressed in a midnight blue velvet robe with a spectacular silvery chiffon ruff around his neck. On his head was an elaborate headdress decorated with studs and ribbons. I had no idea who he was supposed to be, but he looked stunning.

“Your Majesty,” he said, with a mock-curtsy. “And your pet,” he added, winking at Elio. We congratulated him on the beauty of his palace and moved away.

“Asshole,” commented Elio, once we were out of earshot.

“He was being cheeky,” I said, “He didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’d have bitten him, if I could have.”

I glared at him. “You are not biting other men,” I argued, and heard him giggle.

We spent the next hour admiring the beauty of the grand salon - lit by a dozen glass chandeliers and six sconces, all aglow with tall white candles – and wading through the crowd, saying hello to people we thought we knew and being introduced to others. Hundreds of voices made a din that partly obliterated the music, played by a band of musicians dressed as highwaymen.

It wasn’t long before Elio complained that he was too hot.

“Stay here,” he said, as we finally managed to gain access to one of the balconies. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 

I found the entrance to Ralph’s apartment with less difficulty than I’d imagined.

Far from the madding crowd, it was eerily quiet and dark, but it was easier to navigate. I knocked three times like I’d been told to and he let me in.

He shut the door behind us and the noise of the party became a distant echo.

“You’ll have your monkey back in a moment,” I said, and he guffawed.

“I am going to visit a friend who lives in Torcello,” he said. “I’ve had enough of the Carnival.”

I went into the Landing Room and removed my costume. Underneath I was wearing my second disguise, which was much flimsier.

When I came out, Ralph took one look at me and laughed heartily.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he gasped. “I won’t say another word.”

“Aren’t you coming to say hello to Oliver?”

He scrunched his nose. “Not if I can help it,” he replied. “Another time, alright?” I nodded. “Enjoy yourself, whatever you are supposed to be in that getup.”

I thanked him and went back to the party.

 

I made my way back to Oliver ignoring the glances and comments I was attracting. I didn’t want him to see me arrive, so I made sure he had his back to the room before I approached him. I touched his shoulder and said, “Hello stranger,” at which he turned round and his jaw dropped.

“What the hell,” he mouthed, ogling me in a shameless way. “How did you, oh my god.” I smiled and playfully kissed the back of his hand.

“What are you?” he whispered in my ear.

“A raindrop, sir, or maybe a dew-drop,” I replied.

The costume was a shimmery bodysuit embroidered with crystal beads. It was skin-tight and the zip was concealed. On my head I wore a cap encrusted with pearls. Rose had provided it and we’d succeeded in keeping it a secret from Oliver.

“Thank fuck for this tunic,” he murmured, “No one can see how much I like your costume. But they can see all of you, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

Just as I was about to reply, a booming voice behind me proclaimed: “That’s the ass I was looking for.”

Ludovico de Luigi had arrived at the party.


	32. Vanishing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the mystery begins...
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks SO MUCH for all of your comments and kudos. They mean so much to me you have no idea. 
> 
> Also, please do not hate me. It will get better soon...

 

I was still recovering from the vision of Elio in a bodysuit when De Luigi burst my bubble. He was accompanied by Mario and by a robust blonde in a mermaid costume. Stefani introduced her as ‘my friend Vanna’ but I was distracted by the conversation between Elio and Ludovico.

The artist wanted to make a plaster cast of my boyfriend’s bottom and Elio was nodding and smiling.

“Excuse me,” I said to Mario, “What’s that you’re talking about?”

Ludovico grinned at me. “And you too, my boy. The more the merrier. The artwork with be part of the Biennale. I haven’t a title for it yet, but I was thinking of ‘The End of the World’: not bad, uh?”

I was too stunned to speak, so he went on. “It’s the answer to Courbet’s The Origin of the World. And it won’t be just the two of you: I already have ten of them. The plan is to have one for every month of the year.”

Elio was staring at me with a wicked grin painted on his angelic face.

“Do we have to say yes right now?” I asked.

“Plenty of time,” he replied. “But I hope you’ll agree to do it.”

A waiter approached us and offered us the signature drink of the evening, the Pink Bellini. We toasted each other’s health then Vanna took the two men away with her, like a galleon with her two sails.

In the distance, I saw Adriana and a gaggle of young men and women, whom I recognised as Elio’s ‘colleagues’.

I placed a hand on the small of his back. “Come with me,” I said, and led him towards the inner courtyard on Ralph’s side of the Palazzo. Getting there wasn’t easy, but maybe my height and the crown on my head dissuaded people from trying to stop us.

When we finally reached our destination, I noticed that the old gondola wasn’t on its stilts.

“Ralph went to see a friend in Torcello,” Elio explained.

“How do you know?” I enquired. “And what’s this _thing_ you are wearing?”

I circled round him to observe his costume for every angle: it adhered to him like a second skin and left nothing to the imagination. I could almost see the knobs of his spine.

“I told you, I am a raindrop. Rose gave it to me.”

She’ll pay for this, I thought.

“I went to Ralph’s to change, that’s when he told me about Torcello.”

“He’s seen you too?”

Elio nodded, smugly.

I caressed his face. “Where’s the zip?” I asked.

“Won’t tell you,” he replied, biting his lips. “And if you provoke me, I’ll get hard and everyone will see it.”

I couldn’t even squeeze him because of the crystal beads. He read my thoughts.

“You can’t touch me unless you undo the zip,” he boasted. “Convince me,” he added, swaying left and right, like he’d done on that faraway afternoon at the Piave memorial. So much time had passed but he could still undo me with a single glance.

I leaned down and pressed my lips to his. “Oliver,” I whispered, “My darling, my love,” and then I took his hand and placed it above my heart. He opened his mouth and his tongue licked me, mimicking our first kiss.

“Elio,” he murmured, and he guided my hand to his neck, to the star-shaped bead attached to the zip. I undid it with great care, uncovering his chest down to his bellybutton. I took a step back to admire him. The material had chafed his skin and his nipples were dusky and erect.

I heard voices and laughter, but they came and went like waves.

Before I realised what I was doing, I was sucking on his throat and fingering his nipples. Elio was yanking my hair and scratching my neck.

“Fuck, sorry,” I gasped, when I came back to my senses.

He giggled. “Better than I expected,” he said. “Your reaction, I mean. I knew you’d like it---”

“I would eat you alive if I could,” I replied. “Anyone with a pulse will feel the same.”

He flushed as he pulled up the zip. “You are the only one I care about,” he said.

I smiled and kissed his frown away. “I know and I’m so lucky to be with the most beautiful man in the palazzo.”

“Look who’s talking,” he joked. “You’ve no idea what your crown is doing to me.”

We waited for our excitement to subside and I asked him about Ludovico’s idea.

“I’ll only do it if you will too,” he replied. “Your ass should be preserved for posterity.”

“Thousands of people will see _us_ : are you comfortable with that?”

“They won’t know that it’s us,” he argued. “We’ll ask to remain anonymous.”

 

We went back to the party, which was now in full swing.

The band was playing a medley of jazz, pop and some classical pieces. Elio introduced me to his friends: they seemed nice, but it was hard to tell what they looked like under the masks and make up. The most hilarious were Adriana and her boyfriend Sergio: she was dressed as Cleopatra and he as the Asp. While she was talking to me, he and Elio started dancing on the spot, throwing shapes like glistening ballerinas. I needed a few cocktails more to join in but in the meantime I was more than happy to admire them.

It was nearing eleven when the fireworks started: masses of people rushed out on balconies and the courtyard to watch the show. The musicians stopped playing and were served food and drinks. I chose that moment to go relieve myself.

“Philistine,” Elio mocked me, but I’d been trying in vain for the past half hour and hadn’t been able to get to the toilets.

“Be back soon,” I said, which was a lie, but not an intentional one.

 

*** 

 

Larry’s headdress was the first thing I saw of him.

I cried out his name and he turned towards me and waved.

“Have you seen Oliver?” I asked.  The fireworks display had ended but there was no sign of my boyfriend. He replied that no, he hadn’t, so I enquired about his friend. His face crumpled in a grimace.

“He couldn’t make it,” he said, “He had to work, a last minute thing, unfortunately.”

I invited him to join me and my friends, and we danced for a while, but my mind was elsewhere. I was worried about Oliver and after a couple of songs I went to look for him.

 

It was so much like a nightmare that I wanted to scream “move, stand aside, let me through,” but it wasn’t, so I had to patiently weave my way in and out of the crowd. I hadn’t seen Rudy yet, but I’d suspected that he wanted to stay away from me. I recognised him because he was standing next to Daniel: he was wearing a samurai costume and a traditional white mask.

I asked them if they had seen Oliver, and they said, yes, they had, but it had been before the fireworks.

Rudy must have realised how worried I was because he left Daniel there and followed me.

We looked everywhere, but still there was no sign of Oliver.

“He couldn’t have left, I suppose,” he suggested.

“Not without telling me,” I replied, and he agreed.

“Let me deal with it,” he said, “I know most people here. Someone must have seen him.”

My heart beat like a drum in my chest and in my ears, and the candlelight whirled around me like a malevolent sprite. What if something bad had happened to him, what if he was hurt or worse? I shuddered.

“You okay?” said Adriana, who had suddenly appeared at my side.

I told her about Oliver and she offered to help. “Let’s go sit down,” she said, “You’re shivering.”

We found a corner away from the worst of the noise and sat on the floor, our backs to the wall.

“I’m scared,” I said.

“I’m sure he’s okay,” she replied, “Maybe he decided to go for a walk and got lost. He’s not been in Venice for long, has he?”

“He wouldn’t go without me,” I repeated.

Time slowed down and jeered at me and I hated how small and helpless I felt.

Finally, I saw Rudy approach, Vanna in tow.

 

“Tell him what you just told me,” he said.

Vanna seemed pleased to be the centre of attention. She flicked her wavy hair and licked her lips.

“It was during the fireworks,” she explained. “I was going to refresh my makeup and I saw him, your friend, with someone in a monkey costume. Rudy here said it could have been you but I said no, you weren’t dressed like that.” She stared at me. “But you had another costume on, he said.”

“Yes, I was dressed as a monkey but that was before I met you and Ludovico,” I replied.

She was puzzled, but went on with her story. “I was intrigued because they were going towards the other side of the palazzo and I wondered if maybe there was another surprise planned after the fireworks, but nothing came of it.”

Rudy thanked her and gave her a glass of champagne. The band intoned “I will survive" and that was her cue to leave.

 

“No one’s dressed as a monkey,” I said. “I would have noticed.”

The only other possibility was that Ralph had lent the costume to somebody after I’d returned it. Rudy went to ask Daniel for the keys to his brother’s apartment and armed with them, the three of us went up to Ralph’s place. The costume was exactly where I’d put it and Oliver was nowhere to be found.

“If only Ralph hadn’t taken the gondola, we could---“

Daniel laughed. “My brother would never take that relic out,” he said, “He can’t stand it, what with the tourists always asking about Henry James and his journeys along the Canal.”

“But when Oliver and I went there, the gondola was gone.”

Daniel’s eyes opened wide.

“But that’s not possible.”

“I swear that it wasn’t there,” I insisted, “We both remarked on it.”

We hurried out and ran down the stairs, heading to the back courtyard.

“See?” I exclaimed, pointing at the stilts, “It’s not there!”

From that moment on, the night turned into an even more absurd nightmare: the police speedboat came and the three of us – in our costumes but wrapped in blankets – went with them looking for the purloined gondola.

“It’s a valuable antique,” Daniel had told the Carabinieri, who were more horrified by the loss of a Venetian treasure than by the disappearance of my Oliver. Rudy had made sure I had something warm to drink and he was trying to reassure me. I barely listened to him, terrified as I was that Oliver might be in mortal danger.

We scoured the Grand Canal and myriad lesser waterways but to no avail.

It was approaching dawn when we tried our luck at the Giudecca, and it was there, half-hidden among the reeds, that we found it.

 

My relief was short-lived, because Oliver wasn’t inside the gondola.

“What if he’s drowned?” I cried, but the Carabinieri wouldn’t hear of it unless there was proof that he hadn’t simply gone for a walk.

Despite my protestations, we return to Palazzo Barbaro, while one the Carabinieri stayed at the Giudecca with the precious gondola. It was to be thoroughly examined and returned by one of the experienced ‘ _gondolieri_ ’ hired by the Curtis family.

When we reached the landing platform, we saw that most of the guests were still there.

As soon as I set foot on it, Rose and Peter ran up to me.

“We’ve heard about Oliver,” they said, “Any news?”

I shook my head and Rudy briefly told them what had happened.

“We’ll go home,” Rose said, “In case he’s there. We’ll let you know if we hear anything.”

Daniel hurried inside and Rudy followed him.

I hugged the Lamberts, wishing that my parents were there instead. I hadn’t missed them so much since childhood.


	33. Don't Look Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for Oliver comes to an end.
> 
> Elio/Oliver/Elio PoV's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is titled after the film which inspired this story. It's nothing much to do with the plot of the film aside from the device of the protagonist following someone who turns out to be his nemesis.
> 
> Sorry about the delay, but life happened :)
> 
> Thanks so much for your support, it's very very very appreciated xoxoxo

 

From a window in Ralph’s apartment, I watched the seemingly endless stream of guests leave the Palazzo: it was a striking landscape, a wormhole into the past. My teeth chattered despite the blanket wrapped around me and my chest ached.

Daniel has suggested we waited until everybody had left before discussing what to do next. Rose had phoned to inform me that Oliver hadn’t been home. Larry had gone back to the Hidden Nest, but there were no good news from that quarter either.

Rudy had found a bottle of brandy and left it within my reach together with a glass. I took a sip and it made me retch, but I felt marginally better afterwards.

I couldn’t suppress the image of a drowned Oliver: his face swollen with purplish lips and livid skin. I ran to the bathroom and made it just in time.

 

“The way I see it,” Daniel said, “If he were free and able to walk, he would have come back here. Or, if he’d been following somebody, he’d have left a message.”

We were sitting in his private sitting room which, like him, was elegant and handsomely appointed. On the low table were a pot of coffee and a jug of cream.

We were all still wearing our costumes, but I had Oliver coat draped over my shoulders, while Rudy and Daniel had removed their masks.

He lit a long thin cigarette and pushed the silver case towards us, inviting us to help ourselves. My mouth still tasted of bile and I didn’t want to make things worse. Rudy accepted the offer even though he too looked pale and unwell.

“Maybe he couldn’t because there wasn’t time,” I replied.

Rudy was deep in thought, but didn’t seem of the same opinion.

“What?” I asked.

“Oliver wouldn’t have left you here, tonight of all nights,” he said. “The way he spoke about you, your costume---”

I blushed and Daniel chuckled, but Rudy was dead serious.

“He wouldn’t have left unless he’d been forced to, I’m sure of that.”

Daniel scratched his neck underneath the ruff, which was probably starting to chafe.

“Oliver’s a big man, tall and heavy,” he commented, “You wouldn’t be able to force him easily, especially in a place full of people. He’d have shouted or tried to defend himself. Someone would have heard.”

“He was unconscious when he was taken away on your gondola, that what you mean,” I said, in a broken voice.

“This person would have had to carry him to the gondola,” said Rudy. “And what would be the point? Why take Oliver away with them? Surely if he was unconscious, they would have left him here.”

“But somebody would have found him and maybe they didn’t want that,” Daniel chimed in.

Rudy’s expression changed. “That’s it,” he exclaimed. “You are not as vapid as you seem.”

Daniel kicked him in the ankle. “Fuck you,” he swore, but with a cheeky grin. “I’ll teach you a lesson or two when this is over.”

I suddenly felt like the proverbial third-wheel, but it was a short lived impression, since Rudy was already ploughing on. “If Oliver’s been put out of commission but not removed from the premises then he must still be here, hidden somewhere.”

I sprang up. “But where could he be?” I cried, “We have looked everywhere and we haven’t found him.”

Daniel rolled his eyes at me. “Boy, you have no idea. This is an ancient Palazzo, it’s positively lousy with nooks and crannies.”

“Are there any secret passages?” I enquired, a little more excited than I cared to admit.

“Yes, one that leads to the ground floor, but that was flooded years ago,” he replied.

We went to look all the same, but the door was jammed and it was obvious it hadn’t been used recently.

“We used to dredge it, but it was a pointless expenditure so we keep it shut,” Daniel explained.

“Water gets absolutely everywhere,” I said, more and more desperate.

“Not everywhere, actually,” he mused. “Strangely enough, there was an old well and we sealed it off because people were always falling---”

“Where, where is it?” I shouted. “What bloody well, I’ve never seen---”

“I thought it was an urban myth,” said Rudy. “Something you just told the tourists.”

Daniel was already walking towards the inner courtyard. We followed him through a vaulted passageway into a dim chamber that stank of sewage. We switched on the ancient light-bulb that dangled from the ceiling.

“There’s no well in here,” I said.

There was something like pride in Daniel’s eyes. “It’s totally seamless,” he said, “The artist specialised in _t _rompe-l'œil__.”

He kneeled down and ran his fingers along an invisible line along the floor. Rudy and I did the same and we felt it, the edges of a removable slab which had been made to look like the rest of the floor.

“Look,” Rudy whispered, “It’s been swept clean. There’s no dust on it.”

I was feeling queasy again, but I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

“Together, at the count of three,” said Daniel, “One, two, three---”

We prised the well-cover open and looked inside.

The glimmer of the golden crown was the last thing I saw before I blacked out.

 

I was useless, at least until Oliver was lifted out of that disused well and brought to Daniel’s studio, which was the closest room to the well chamber.

“Oliver, Oliver,” I kept repeating his name and it was only when I started seeing double that I realised that I was crying.

Rudy checked Oliver’s pulse and let out a sigh of relief.

“Slow but steady,” he said.

Luckily the well wasn’t deep and its bottom was soggy. There were no cuts or bruises on his head or face, but his arms and legs were in much worse shape.

It hadn’t been easy to get him out but that was Venice, and dredging canals and wells was a common occurrence. Daniel and Rudy were both well connected and after a few phone calls, they’d put together a rescue team.

A doctor had been called too and he’d arrived still in costume. He’d been to a private party, he explained and apologised for reeking of alcohol.

Oliver woke up the moment the man prodded him in the ribs.

“Ouch,” he cried, “Leave me alone.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding for hours. I couldn’t hug him or kiss him, but I touched his cheek and he opened his eyes, blinking, and frowned.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

The doctor checked his vitals and advised that he be taken to hospital for further examination.

“Nothing’s broken, but he may have fractured his ribs. Badly sprained left ankle and a severe bruising on lower and upper limbs,” he continued. “I’ll give you a tetanus shot and some painkillers, but once you are in hospital---”

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Oliver said, “I’m fine. It’s just a couple of scratches, nothing serious.”

“You are going,” I argued. “You may have internal bleeding.”

“Your concert is today,” he said, “I’m not missing it, no matter what.”

The doctor’s eyebrows shot up but he didn’t say anything.

“Maybe you could give him those injections,” suggested Rudy, who had helped with the rescue and was smeared with mud.

I wrapped my hand around Oliver’s wrist, thumbing at his pulse point to make sure he was really alive. He smiled at me, but it turned into a grimace when the needle pushed in.

“Elio,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the party for you.”

I shook my head; the words wouldn’t come out of my throat.

 

Daniel accompanied the doctor to his water-taxi and Rudy went to clean himself up.

Oliver and I were finally alone.

“Come here,” he husked, and I fell into his arms. He winced in pain and I tried to move away but he wouldn’t let me. “I was so scared,” I muttered, my lips mouthing his neck. “I thought you’d drowned.” The sobs came, painful but liberating; Oliver stroked my back and murmured soothing words.

“Who was it,” I asked, “Who pushed you into that damn well?”

Oliver sighed, “It was the monkey costume that fooled me,” he replied, “I thought it was you.”

 

***

 

Elio stared at me a though I’d just gone mad.

“But how could it have been me,” he exclaimed. “You knew that I’d changed costumes.”

I was going to be woozy soon and I wanted to tell him my story first.

Rudy came back into the room only to excuse himself again. “I’ll be in Daniel’s sitting room,” he told Elio, “Come and see us when you are ready.”

I wished to thank him properly and Daniel too, but it would have had to wait.

Elio made me drink a glass of water then he held my hand as I spoke.

“It was the same costume,” I said, “Not similar, but exactly the same.”

“But that’s not possible,” he argued. “We went to Ralph’s apartment and it was still there where I’d left it.”

“Maybe it was used and discarded later,” I suggested, but Elio was unconvinced.

“I’m pretty sure it hadn’t been touched,” he insisted.

“Then there must have been two identical costumes,” I said. “I was a bit drunk already and it had taken me a while to get to the toilets. I did my business, got out and you--- this person approached me and grabbed me by the hand. I thought you’d planned another surprise for me.”

“Did you see this person’s eyes?”

“Darker than yours, maybe, but by candle light it’s hard to tell, plus the costume’s head was--- I should have guessed it couldn’t be you.”

“No, no, it was a very smart idea,” he murmured, “whoever thought of it knew about my party outfit. We only told a few people.”

He made me drink some more water after which I continued. “You--he didn’t speak, but that didn’t alarm me. I thought you were being flirty.”

We exchanged smiles. “We went into the courtyard and then through a passage after which he opened a door and disappeared behind it. I followed him and when I realised it was a trap, it was already too late.”

He shuddered and placed soft kisses along my jaw.

“I guess Rudy will want to inform the police,” I said, after a while. “Don’t let him. I want the fundraiser to be a success.”

Elio glowered. “I don’t care,” he hissed. “If that awful woman is behind this, I want her put away for a very long time.”

I took his hands and kissed his wrists.

“Listen to me,” I said, looking straight into his eyes. “We won’t be able to prove anything in such a short time, but what it will cause a scandal all the same.”

“They took the gondola you know?” he said.

“What, where?” My head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton balls.

“The Curtis gondola: we found it outside the Giudecca’s secret garden,” Elio replied.

“I don’t understand,” I said, “But promise me you will not let Rudy inform the police.”

After a little more pleading, he promised.

In return, I agreed to go to the hospital if I fainted again or if the pain worsened.

I was resting in his arms when I fell asleep.

 

***

 

“He made me promise you won’t inform the Carabinieri,” I said, as soon I stepped inside Daniel’s sitting room. Curtis had changed and was wearing an oatmeal cable-knit sweater over dark denim trousers.

“I figured as much,” he said, shooting a glance at Rudy that said ‘I told you so’. “Since he doesn’t want to go to hospital, I imagined he wouldn’t want the police involved either.”

“We can’t just pretend it didn’t happen,” said Rudy, who for the first time since I’ve met him was truly rattled. “First, someone steals your gondola and then Oliver nearly dies, for god’s sakes!”

I winced and he apologised.

Daniel gazed at Rudy again but this time it was harder to decrypt.

“We all need to get some sleep, especially Elio,” he said. “I suppose you won’t want to leave Oliver, so I can have a folding bed brought into the studio. I’ll show you where the bathroom is and lend you a change of clothes.”

Rudy was shaking his head. “This isn’t right,” he muttered.

Daniel sighed noisily. “Of course it isn’t bloody right,” he said, “But that’s what Oliver wants and since it’s his decision and not yours---”

I perceived the beginning of an argument between them so I accepted Daniel’s offer and went back to Oliver.

He was battered and bruised but he was with me again and I would not let anything happen to him.


	34. Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the concert: yay!!!!!
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay but life happened. I am back and I will reply your lovely comments asap. Thanks again for being patient, I promise this story will be finished xoxoxo

Elio was staring at me.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

My head was hurting but it was only a dull ache, thanks to the painkillers.

I was bare-chested and Elio was flush against me. I smiled at him and ruffled his hair; there was powdery glitter in his curls.

“Could be worse,” I replied, “Is it time to go?”

His lips twitched. “No, it’s early,” he replied, “But I wanted to talk to you.”

I sighed; I knew what was coming.

“We should go to the police and tell them everything,” he said. “I don’t care if they don’t believe us or if it causes a diplomatic incident. You could have been killed!”

He was so close that I could feel his heartbeat and the peaks of his nipples. Despite everything, my body was responding to his proximity. I stroked the side of his neck and the sharp wing of his collarbone.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “If they wanted me dead, they could have just stuck a knife in my back. They were warning me, letting me know that they are on to me.”

Elio leaned in and bit my chin.

“You are so stubborn,” he muttered.

“Look who’s talking,” I sniggered. “Let’s just make it through tonight. After the fundraiser, we’ll see.”

He growled. “What is there to see? You have been attacked. The Curtis gondola was stolen. Surely even the Venetians must see that it cannot have been only an accident?”

“It’s Carnival, my dear, these pranks must happen all the time.”

I rubbed his earlobe and he shot me a glare. “Are you trying to distract me?”

“And why would I do that?” I murmured, drawing the outline of his mouth with my thumb. There was belligerence in his gaze, but it lasted only until I arched my back and thrust my hips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “We can’t do this here. And you are---what about your ribs?”

“My ribs can take it,” I replied. “You owe me, after showing up in that costume.”

He snorted. “You can’t be serious.”

I made him realise how serious I was.

 

“I love this, Oliver,” he panted.

We were naked on the sofa, on our sides, chest to chest. It was all I’d wanted: his sweat-slick skin touching mine, my bruises burning in counterpoint to the pleasure of his sex grinding into my groin. His kisses on my sternum, my throat, my belly, were wet and hot, but also sweet and tender. He couldn’t get enough of my body, he stroked himself against it like a purring cat and swallowed down his moans when I circled his rim and fingered him open.

“Jesus,” he cried out, as he came all over my stomach. I returned the favour a moment later.

 

“Help me up,” I said.  

Daniel’s housekeeper had brought us lunch and informed us that Mr Curtis had left but that we were welcome to stay as long as we liked.

My ankle was throbbing but with the bandage and another dose of painkillers, I was sure I could hobble to the water taxi. It would then only be a matter of getting hold of a walking stick and the problem would be solved.

“You are not going anywhere,” Elio replied, not for the first time.

He’d been repeating it as he’d helped me put on the clothes Rudy had brought over, and I’d ignored him and intended to do more of the same.

“I’m coming home with you,” I said, “And tonight I’ll be sitting in the front row, admiring the view.”

He rolled his eyes skyward and took my hand.

“You are too heavy for me,” he warned, “I won’t be able to support you if you stumble. We’ll both end up in the canal.”

I laughed. “No one’s falling in the canal,” I replied. “I’ve had enough adventure to last me for a day or two.”

He assumed the expression of a saint who’d been tried beyond endurance.

“Which is why you should rest and recuperate,” he stated.

“I’ll do that at home in our bed,” I said, “Come on, Pino won’t wait forever.”

He sighed and did as told.

 

I put on a brave face but as soon as the effects of the medicines started to fade, the pain was stabbing at my ribs. I was sure they weren’t broken, but I was looking forward to lying down in the dark for a few hours.

Pino took over from Elio and helped me in and out of his boat, and when we reached Cannaregio, Rose was waiting on the quay; she was smiling but it was clear that she was concerned.

“Peter found you a stick,” she said, as soon as I was safely inside the apartment and sitting on the couch. “He bought it while we were in Calalzo, a village up in the mountains. It’s a lovely cane, with an antiqued brass head. You’ll look regal.”

Elio made a face.

“By the way, what happened to my costume?” I enquired.

“Rudy took it to the dry cleaners,” Elio explained. He wasn’t too happy, I could tell, but I appreciated his silence.

“I have left mine at Palazzo Barbaro,” he continued, and Rose suggested that she’d go and pick it up herself. We thanked her and she left after having informed us that Emilia had restocked the fridge and prepared a pot of coffee.

 

Elio had been gone ten minutes or so when I fell asleep. The alarm was set at the time when Elio would come back to change into a black velvet suit and white shirt. The shirt was supposed to be a surprise: I had bought him one with a ruffle detail on the collar and down the front. It was made of fine silk and it was nearly as delicate as Elio’s skin.

 

I dreamt of darkened alleys and friends turning into enemies, unfamiliar faces among the crowd that suddenly, by the light of the candles, became intensely unpleasant. I woke up with a start. Someone was inside the apartment.

                              

“You scared me,” I remonstrated to a flustered Mario.

He was standing outside my bedroom, holding a bag full of fried Carnival pastries and a bottle of liquor.

“I heard about what happened from Vanna,” he explained. “Well, she wasn’t too clear but I got the gist of it. How are you feeling?”

I limped out of bed and he ran to my aid. I was feeling better after my rest. Even my ankle wasn’t as sore.

“Getting there,” I replied.

“You need a tonic,” he said, “A _grappino_ will do you a world of good.”

“Not sure I should mix pills and alcohol,” I argued, as we both sat down on the sofa.

“Okay, so you’ll have the pastries and I’ll have the grappa.”

He went to kitchen to fetch a glass and two plates.

When he returned, he had a cane hooked over his forearm.

“Rose asked me to give you this for tonight,” he explained. “Very smart, very elegant: you’ll look like a distinguished aristocrat.”

I ate while he sipped his drink and glanced at me from time to time.

“I was hoping you’d come along to the Poetry festival, you and Elio, and look at what happened,” he said, shaking his head. “Of all the crazy stunts that I have witnessed over the years, this must be the nastiest. You could have died for lack of oxygen.”

I tried to reassure him. “I doubt it. The water makes everything permeable. Nothing is ever sealed shut here.”

“But whoever did that to you couldn’t know that,” he remarked. “They must have been drunk.” He raised his glass and observed the liquid inside it with a critical eye. “Some people can’t hold their liquor and when they are in their cups, they lose all sense of proportion. Just look at the Bacchanalia in Ancient Rome.”

“Speaking of roués,” I said, “What was that about Ludovico and Elio’s backside?”

Mario’s mood brightened considerably.

“It’s a fantastic idea, don’t you agree?”

“Well---”

“The male posterior hasn’t been given its due in modern art,” he said. “It’s only fair to redress the balance.”

“I sense that Ludovico is on a one-man mission to right many of these wrongs,” I observed.

“He is fearless, doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion and always says what he means, unlike some foreign artists,” he said.

When I enquired what he meant, he explained that he wasn’t too impressed with locals awarding commissions to foreigners.

“Plenty of artists here in Venice,” he said, “Burano and Torcello are crammed with them. And because there’s limited demand, they end up by painting walls and ceilings.”

Somewhere in my mind something had clicked, but when I tried to recapture it, it was gone.

 

I heard the door shut with a bang and Elio’s high-pitched tones.

“Oliver, are you alright, where are you, talk to me!”

“In the bathroom,” I shouted.

He burst in smelling of fog and cigarettes.

“Why did you get in the bath,” he scowled at me.

“To have a bath, obviously,” I replied, smiling.

“Very funny,” he bit back. “You could have slipped and broken your back or something.”

“I have a sprained ankle, I haven’t suddenly turned eighty.”

He shed his clothes in record time and climbed in.

My injured foot was resting on the edge of the bath; he turned his head towards it and kissed my ankle.

“How was the final rehearsal,” I asked.

“It was great,” he replied, “I love working with Foscari and I think he liked working with me. He said I should go back to being a concert pianist.”

I stroked his knees. “And what do you think?”

Elio stared into my eyes. “I don’t want us to be apart,” he murmured. “Many couples have long-distance relationships, but I couldn’t---”

“I couldn’t either,” I agreed. “But there’s no need for that. I could come with you, follow you around. I can afford it and I could always go back to writing, in case I need something to do.”

He placed a kiss on my shin. “You’d really do that for me?” he whispered.

“I’m not going to let you out of my sight,” I joked, “The way people were staring at you in that costume,” I shook my head. “I don’t want to tempt fate again.”

“I’d never cheat on you,” he said, a frown between his eyes.

“We’d both feel lonely and there’s no need for that since we can be together.”

“You really are a philosopher,” he announced, with a sarcastic smile.

“I’ll deal with that tone of voice when I’m better,” I replied, making him blush.

 

“It’s so beautiful,” Elio exclaimed, as he admired the shirt I had just given him.

He put it on and left it unbuttoned. From where I was sitting, I glimpsed at that sliver of pale skin and licked my lips.

“You are beautiful,” I replied, broken-voiced. “The most incredible man I’ve ever met.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said, coming to stand between my parted legs.

I looked up into his face and was struck anew by how much I loved him.

“Yes, I truly do.”

He bent down and kissed my mouth. His tongue teased mine and I sensed trouble.

“Stop,” I husked. “If we keep going, you know how it’s gonna end.”

Elio gave me a lewd smile. “With your cock in my mouth,” he said, “I’ve been thirsting for it.”

“Brat,” I said, “Now I’ll have to think of something disgusting to take the edge off.”

“That dead rat we saw by the canal a few days ago,” he suggested.

That did it, but only just.

 

This time, Rose and Peter were soberly attired: he in a pearl grey evening suit and she in a traditional black dress.

I was leaning on the stick that Peter had given me while Elio had his arm around my waist.

It was early still, but the Lamberts had been invited by Jane Ryland to their exclusive pre-party gathering. I was going to be backstage with Elio until minutes before the recital.

Luckily, the weather had been behaving: it was cold but dry with no frost, so I wouldn’t risk skidding and taking a tumble.

The facade of the Guggenheim was glowing with lights and the landing platform was lit by torches.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he said, squeezing my hand.

“It’s perfect,” I chimed in.

But I was wrong.

The moment we stepped out of Pino’s boat, I saw a woman I thought I recognised.

She hurried towards us.

“Elio, _tesoro_ ,” she said.

It was Annella, and a few steps behind her stood her husband, Elio’s father.

 _That_ was perfect.


	35. Night at the Museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio performs and Oliver is even more besotted than ever...
> 
> Basically, just a lot of fluffy fluff.
> 
> Oliver's POV

I stayed behind and allowed Elio some time alone with his parents. It didn’t take long before Rudy came out from behind the spectacular Angel of the City and sidled up to me. He wore a sheepish, eloquent expression.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” I said, not even bothering to sound interrogative.

“Well, I,” he sighed, “Yes, I told the Professor the last time I heard from him and I didn’t want Elio to know in case they hadn’t been able to make it, for whatever reason.”

I snorted. “Wild horses wouldn’t have kept them away.”

We both looked at the sculpture that dominated the terrace – a horse and its rider – and laughed.

“How are you feeling?” he enquired, as he gazed at my walking stick.

“Not at my best,” I replied, “But tomorrow I intend to spend the entire day in bed and by Monday I should be as good as new. How is Mrs Ryland?”

He became serious. “In her element,” he said. “These events are what she lives for: money and culture, you know?”

“Don’t tell me that you dislike them.”

He narrowed his eyes. “They are means to an end, that’s all they are. What I truly care about is the preservation of Venice and its treasures.”

I smiled at him. “I know, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“None taken,” he said, and his attention was captured by someone standing behind me.

“Oliver, my boy, what’s wrong with your leg?”

It was Samuel’s voice.

 

The other musicians were starting to arrive and so were the selected guests to the pre-party gathering. Elio and Annella had already gone inside, so Samuel helped me negotiate the steps that led to the gallery entrance.

“I had a small accident,” I replied, “Nothing serious.”

What a strange opening gambit, I thought, after having been estranged for years. I looked at him and couldn’t detect any significant change, aside from the greying of his hair and beard. He seemed happy to see me, which surprised me a little.

Once inside, we found a bench and sat on it.

“Rudy told us about you and Elio,” he explained. “You can’t imagine how delighted we were to find out that you are taking care of one another.”

My throat was suddenly constricted.

“I have so many regrets,” I said, “What I did to Elio was unforgivable.”

“But he has forgiven you.”

I nodded. “And have you?”

Unexpectedly, he hugged me.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he stated, firmly. “You acted according to what you believed was your and Elio’s best interest. You made the wrong choice, perhaps, but not out of malice.”

I blinked to stave off the tears. “I never wanted to hurt him,” I rasped.

“Maybe it was the price you both had to pay,” he said, “In exchange for a lifetime’s happiness.”

I looked him in the eye, to show him how earnest I was.

“I will do everything in my power to make Elio happy, whatever it takes.”

He squeezed my hand and winked.

“Let’s go find them,” he said, “Annella was eager to see you. Be warned: she’ll want to nurse you.”

“Like mother, like son.”

He laughed and offered me his arm for support.  

 

Elio had taken his mother to the museum cafe, which for the occasion had been turned into an open bar.

They sat at a table with a view on the Nasher garden and were drinking Aperols.

As soon as she caught my eye, Annella rushed towards me and Samuel stood aside.

“Oliver,” she exclaimed, and took my face in her hands. “Still handsome,” she joked, and I blushed. She guided me to my chair and took my cane as I lowered myself into the former.

Samuel ordered two more Aperols and as soon as the waiter departed, the conversation erupted.

Elio’s eyes shone as he told his parents about Olga and the Vivaldi piece she’d gifted him. I was lost in contemplation of him, when I felt Annella’s gaze on me.

Her hand found mine and held it. “He’s amazing,” I said, and Elio made a face, but it was obvious that he was pleased.

There wasn’t much time, and Foscari had already signalled to his musicians that he was waiting for them.

Elio hugged his parents and kissed me on the cheek. “See you soon,” he murmured. I couldn’t help but touch the spot where his lips had been even though I must have seemed like a besotted kid.

 

“He looks so good,” Annella said, once Elio had gone. “He’s all grown up.”

“Rudy must have kept you informed,” I suggested.

“Not much, but enough to know that Elio was with you and that he was doing well. We never doubted that he’d find contentment, but we wished him to be truly happy, and I always believed,” she stopped and looked at her husband, who nodded. “I was convinced he could only be really happy with you. Sam didn’t agree with me.”

“That’s not it,” the Professor argued, “I was hoping there would be another Oliver in his life, if he couldn’t have the original one. But I am more than glad to have been proven wrong.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I sipped my drink.

“Rudy said you were divorced,” Annella continued.

I told them briefly about Carole and what had caused the demise of our marriage. As I recounted the story to them, that’s what it sounded like: a story. Not my life, but another man’s, a man who barely resembled me.

“You are free to do as you please,” concluded Samuel.

“As long as I don’t have to run anywhere,” I joked.

“What sort of accident was it?” Annella enquired.

I didn’t want to tell them before discussing it with Elio.

“There was a Carnival party last night,” I replied. “It was rowdier than expected.”

Samuel shot me a searching look but didn’t insist.

A bell rang out and a moment later, Rudy came up to us.

“I’ll take you to your seats,” he announced.

 

The vast basement salon had been adorned with crystal chandeliers and masses of orchids. The carved wooden chairs, elegantly upholstered in crimson damask, were arranged around the makeshift stage on which a magnificent harpsichord took pride of place.

Jane Ryland, dressed in a theatrical heliotrope silk sheath, addressed the audience.

I hardly took in her words, intent as I was in trying to capture her attention. Once her eyes met mine and they were as cold and unflinching as a viper’s.

Next to me, Annella was beaming. What a beautiful woman, I thought: so much like her son, down to the thick line of her eyebrows.

 

Olga Rudge was sensational: her appearance galvanized the high-society crowd, which included descendants of the house of Savoy and a couple of Loredans, the famous Doges family.

She wore a gauzy confection which reminded me of the great Hollywood divas of the past. When Elio stepped on to the stage, my heart skipped a beat and Annella gasped softly. Elio kissed Olga’s hand and curtsied. A warm applause welcomed them and I found it hard to breathe.

In the moment of silence which preceded the music, Elio looked in our direction and smiled.

 

The concert was like a strange dream: maybe because of the emotional roller-coaster I’d been subjected to, mixed with the tension and the effect of the painkillers, I was in a trance-like state. Elio’s sublime performance, his transcendent beauty and the effect he was having on the audience: all added to the uncanny sensation that nothing was real, that I would wake up in some alternative universe of which Elio was the governing deity.

There were two encores, one of them the Vivaldi piece transcribed by Elio.

The crowd was eerily silent as Elio’s fingers caressed the keyboard. The melody seeped into my blood, licking at it like fire. When it ended, I was tingling all over, all my aches and pains forgotten. “I love you,” I thought, a bit madly. “I’d die for you.”

 

The applause went on for minutes and it soon turned into a standing ovation.

Foscari was called on stage and bunches of flowers were offered to all the musicians: red roses for the women, and white ones for the men.

Jane Ryland reappeared to announce that the bar was open and slowly but surely people trickled out of the salon.

“Wow,” I said, once again the smitten kid, “That was, yeah---”

Samuel was cleaning his glasses, a telltale sign that he’d been moved to tears, while Annella was chatting with Rose and Peter who’d come over to introduce themselves.

A few instant later, Rudy came over to us.

“Olga would like to have a word,” he whispered in my ear and then to Samuel, louder, “We’ll see you at the cafe in ten minutes, if that’s alright.”

“No more surprises, please” said the Professor, and we all laughed.

 

“You were fantastic,” I said to Olga. She was ensconced in a throne-like armchair and was drinking champagne from a flute. “And your dress, well, I’m speechless.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “This glad rag,” she replied, “It is Adrian’s, a Garbo cast-off. Anyway, never mind my clothes. What is it that I hear about you falling inside a well at Palazzo Barbaro?”

Larry had told her everything he knew, but she wanted to hear the whole story.

“That Jane is up to something, I can tell. She must have put on half a stone, which means that she’s gloating.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t at the party,” I replied. “One of us would have seen her. Daniel Curtis surely would have known.”

Olga snorted. “She wouldn’t do the deed, of course. I wonder what sort of snake she’s hired to do her dirty work; any ideas?”

“I haven’t had time to really think about it,” I said, “But starting from tomorrow, that’s all I’m going to do. I won’t let whomever did this to me get away with it.”

“That’s the spirit,” she exclaimed, raising her glass. “I wish I could stay on but I’m exhausted.”

Rudy offered to see her to the water taxi, but Larry had gone to make sure the boat was ready and came back just as we were helping Olga into her mink coat.

“Your boy was a great success,” she told me, as she was leaving. “He’ll be famous soon, mark my words.”

 

Elio was the beau of the party: everybody wanted to congratulate him, to bask in his glory and admire his loveliness; some even asked for his autograph.

I had given up on having him to myself and was ordering a whisky at the bar, when I felt his hand on the small of my back.

“Go back to the basement,” he murmured, “the storage room, first door on the left, ten minutes.”

I did as told and arrived there first. The room was empty, but there were traces of recent occupancy, like the marks on the floor and the chipped paint on portions of the wall.

“You noticed them too,” said Elio’s voice.

I turned around and smiled at him. “And I thought you wanted some time alone with me,” I said.

He wrapped his arms around me and rested his cheek against my chest.

“That too,” he replied. “I can’t take it in yet. First my parents and then all those people treating me like I’m  important.”

“You are going to be a big star,” I said. “Even Olga said that and he definitely knows what she’s talking about.”

I caressed his hair and he purred. “I was terrified I’d forget how to play, but it was incredibly easy, it simply flowed, you know?”

I held him tight. “I could hardly blink in case I missed anything.”

He gazed up at me and I couldn’t resist, I had to kiss his lips. We made out for a while and stopped when Elio realized my ankle had started to hurt.

“Lean on me,” he said, “I wanted to show you this room because I heard that it was filled with crates until a couple of days ago. They emptied it and left it unlocked because Foscari asked for temporary dressing room. In the end, he didn’t use it but it made me wonder.”

I chuckled. “Talented musician and sleuth,” I said.

He crinkled his nose. “Mock me all you want, but don’t you think there’s something in it?”

I stroked his cheek, his lips, his chin. “There’s definitely something in it,” I replied.


	36. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut and mystery, here we come!
> 
> Warning for massive amounts of fluff
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think the story about the papers is outlandish, well, that's what REALLY happened to them. They were found, eventually.

 

I woke up shivering and with the distinct impression that I was being observed.

The covers had been pushed aside, I was naked, and Elio was ogling me through half-lidded eyes. He was licking his lips and staring at the bruises on my torso.

“Morning,” I murmured. “You okay?”

He hummed and bit the inside of his mouth.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I said.

“Promise me you won’t laugh,” he replied, still avoiding my gaze.

“Just tell me,” I insisted.

“I went to the bathroom and when I came back, you were like this, and I thought what if we--- role-played. You had been in a fight, maybe you did this for a living, as a boxer or a wrestler, and I would tend to your injuries.”

My sex twitched; already one step ahead of my mind.

“And would we be lovers, friends, or partners with benefits?” I enquired.

He scratched his neck. “It’s a new relationship,” he replied. “We are exploring our boundaries.”

I thought about the statue in the Guggenheim and decided to take the initiative.

“Angel, sorry for waking you last night,” I said, “The fight didn’t go as planned.”

Elio’s eyes flew open but he didn’t miss a beat.

“Are you very hurt?” he whispered, as he brushed his fingertips across my breastplate.

I grimaced. “I wouldn’t mind a go at your special treatment.”

“You should have asked me instead of going to sleep,” he argued, “I’m always here for you.”

The way he was looking at me made my dick go from semi to very interested.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked. When he moaned, I pulled him to me and kissed him. He was letting me dictate the pace: his tongue submitted to mine as I went deeper and deeper.

“You taste like honey,” I said, when we parted.

His eyes were dark and he was panting. “I want to make you feel good,” he croaked.

“Angel,” I whispered, and suddenly his mouth was on my throat: a wet trail from my Adam’s apple down to my belly. Elio licked the outline of my bruises and sucked on the injured skin. 

I swore and begged as he stuck his tongue inside my belly button and grazed the flesh with his teeth.

“I need you,” I heard myself say, in a strangled voice.

“You have me,” he replied, wrapping his lips around the head of my cock.

I cried out and his restraint gave way: he went pumped my dick as though his life depended on it, all the while gazing up at my face and teasing my nipples. I caught glimpses of his tongue as it swirled around the tip and when he hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, I lost my self-control.

“Gonna come, gonna fucking come,” I shouted, just as he shoved his middle finger inside of me. I shot my load down his throat, and he drank it all down, uttering contented mewling noises.

I pulled his hair and he got the message: a moment later, his spunk-coated tongue was in my mouth, and his erection was prodding my belly.

“My turn,” I whispered against his cheek.

“Wanna come on your stomach, mark my territory,” he husked.

“Yours, is it?”

“Hmm, that’s what I hope.”

I caressed his neck and the slope of his shoulder. “There’s no one else like you.”

“I feel the same about you,” he replied, and took his dick in hand.

A dozen of strokes later, he painted my skin with his semen. I licked the come off his fingers while he recovered his breath.

“You’re so sexy like this,” he said, as we lay side by side.

“Covered in ejaculate and reeking of sweat?”

He giggled. “Yes, that too,” he replied.

“You like me better when I am worse for wear,” I suggested. “Should I take up boxing?”

He shook his head. “No, I mean, if you want to, yes, but that’s not what I meant. I like that you are so open with me, that you are not thegolden _muvi star_ anymore.”

I smiled at the mention of the nickname Annella had given me.

“I never was, no matter how hard I tried.”

“You have no idea the effect you had on me, when you fell asleep on my bed on your first day at the villa.”

I snorted. “You were annoyed; don’t deny it.”

“I was, but it took me a while to understand why.”

“You thought that I was ignoring you.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t the true reason,” he explained. “It was the revelation that, even though I could fool around with girls, I could not get what I wanted from them; your body stretched across my bed: that’s what I needed. It was overwhelming. You were overwhelming. And it scared me.”

I drew my thumb along his jaw.

“You are the _muvi star_ now,” I joked.

He raised his forearm to display his scars. “Not with these, I am not.”

My heart was a lead weight against my diaphragm.

“If only I could undo it---”

Elio pressed a finger to my lips to silence me.

“I used to indulge those fantasies too but not anymore,” he said, “Maybe we wouldn’t be here if that hadn’t happened.”

“Your dad said it was a price worth paying for a lifetime’s happiness.”

His eyes shone a little brighter.

“Wise words,” he said.

We kissed softly, almost chastely, and exchanged endearments and plans for the future.

“When we go on our sex holiday, will you let me role-play again?” he asked.

“I thought you didn’t like the idea of a sex holiday,” I argued.

He nuzzled my neck and bit down on my earlobe.

“I never said that and you are being evasive.”

“Fine, fine,” I laughed. “Yes, we can do whatever you like, as long as you don’t intend to replace me with another---”

That vague sense of intuition, of puzzle pieces clicking into place, took a more definite shape. I sat up and Elio stared at me. “Are you in pain?” he enquired.

“We have to go to the Ghetto,” I replied. “Maybe you should stay here, just in case.”

He snorted loudly. “You are limping and last time I left you alone you ended up inside a well. And if you were going to suggest that Rudy could accompany you, I’d advise you to keep your mouth shut.”

I wanted to dress and go there directly, but Elio wouldn’t hear of it.

“We’ll eat breakfast, you’ll take your pills and then we’ll go,” he said, in a tone that brooked no dissent.

 

It was a muggy day but at least it wasn’t raining, although the thin drizzle that coated the cobblestones forced me to walk slower than I’d liked to. I would have ignored it had it not been for Elio and the arm that he’d wrapped around my waist.

“It’s only a sprained ankle,” I muttered.

In fact, I could have done without the walking stick, but one look at Elio’s stubborn chin and I’d conceded defeat.

“They can’t have taken them,” he said, “No one knows they are there.”

“That isn’t true,” I argued.

“Are you suspecting Rudy?”

“No, but I find it hard to believe that what happened at Palazzo Barbaro was only a prank to scare me off.”

“And what was it you suspect exactly?”

“A diversion,” I replied. “The old smoke and mirrors trick. Conjurers employ it all the time: your attention is directed away from the action.”

Elio’s hand slid down and he briefly squeezed my bottom. No one was around: the city was still recovering from the previous night’s revels. Close by, the church bells of Santa Maria dei Servi rang out the hour: it was a quarter to eleven, and soon the pious and the faithful would flock to Mass.

 

Elio unlocked the door and let out a sigh of relief.

“Look, the boxes are all there,” he announced. “They haven’t been touched.”

He was right: the room was apparently unchanged yet I was not satisfied. I had guessed what had happened even before I could articulate it. It was obvious and didn’t require any skills aside from finding out the location of the papers and gaining admittance.

“Open one,” I said, “And look inside.”

Elio did as told and frowned.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “They seem to be old journals. Did Pound collect them?”

I put on a pair of gloves and took a sheaf of documents out of the first box: it was as I’d thought. The papers had been replaced by others, probably of no monetary or literary value.

 

There was nothing we could do, so we locked the room and returned home.

We’d been invited to lunch by the Lamberts, who had also asked Elio’s parents to attend. I phoned Rudy and told him what had happened. We agreed to meet in the afternoon to discuss our strategy, but neither of us wished to inform the police, much to Elio’s dismay.

“We hadn’t done the inventory yet,” I said. “They are not jewels or banknotes.”

“But Olga will swear that they are not her papers,” he argued.

“A woman over ninety years of age,” I remarked. “They might suggest that she’s forgetful, that she’s taken them and put them somewhere and doesn’t remember where. The door wasn’t forced and there was no sign of occupancy.”

“You are not letting that woman get away with it, I hope,” he said.

“First thing is to find out who betrayed us,” I replied, “And I have a feeling I was getting close to cracking it.”

I reached out for the pack of cigarette on the side table.

“I don’t think so,” Elio said, and prised them from me.

“Annella will offer me one.”

“She’ll do no such thing,” he said, “I told her you’re cutting down.”

“I wasn’t aware,” I started, but he cut me off. “Your throat is delicate,” he said, and that was it, end of story.

 

 

Oliver had wanted to shave but I convinced him to leave it for at least one day.

He looked older and intensely masculine. The walking stick enhanced the impression and was doing wonders for my libido. Not that it needed any additional stimulants, aside from his presence next to me.

My parents and the Lamberts were still excited about my performance at the fundraiser, while my mind was on the disappearance of the papers. Who was the traitor, I wondered. If we accepted that Rudy was to be trusted, and so was Olga, for obvious reasons, then who else was left?

 

“You seem preoccupied,” said my dad.

After lunch, we’d invited them to our apartment for coffee. Oliver and Maman were in the sitting room, while we were in the kitchen preparing the drinks.

“Nothing important,” I replied.

“Is it to do with Oliver’s accident?”

“Yes, probably,” I said.

“You know that we don’t want to interfere, but perhaps we can help you, if you tell us what’s going on.” He smiled and tousled my hair. “Anyway, your mother is working her magic on Oliver and as you know, nobody can resist her.”

 

It was true enough.

When we rejoined them, Oliver was describing the theft of the Curtis gondola.

“But that’s terrible,” maman exclaimed. “Browning and Henry James were guests of the family, so they must have gone boating on that gondola.”

“Fortunately it was soon found and it was apparently undamaged.”

“Why apparently?” asked my father, shrewdly.

I looked at Oliver and he nodded.

“Oliver doesn’t know because he wasn’t there when we found it,” I replied.

“Where were you, _tesoro_?” maman enquired.

“He was at the bottom of a well, in one of the secret rooms of Palazzo Barbaro,” I said.

We took turns at telling the story and by the end of it my dad was intrigued while maman was obviously worried.

“You should inform the police and let them deal with it,” she said, and despite the fact that I’d been of the same opinion, I immediately changed my mind.

“We can’t,” I argued. “We promised Olga.”

“I’m sure that we are close to catching our thief,” Oliver said. “It was something someone told me, if only I could remember it.”

“Maybe going back to the scene of the crime will jog your memory,” dad suggested. He was enjoying himself, I could tell.

Oliver frowned. “I didn’t see the face of my aggressor,” he said, “He was wearing a costume.”

“But you may recollect other details and among them, the one thing that really matters.”


	37. Elementary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His name is Holmes, Oliver Holmes. Sorry, I just couldn't resist.  
> Oliver's solved part of the mystery and Elio is proper impressed lmao
> 
> This is a plotty chapter, but there will be fluffy smut in the next one, which won't be long to come..
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments and for always being here with me. I love you all!

Rudy agreed to meet us at Palazzo Barbaro but when we got there, it wasn’t he or Daniel that met us at the entrance.

Ralph, dishevelled and bleary-eyed, did the honours instead.

“I couldn’t believe it when they told me,” he said, staring at Oliver’s walking stick. “And the monkey costume, that was a dirty trick. Captain Monkeyface was always a force for good.”

Elio was suppressing a smile, but he managed to stay serious as he introduced his parents.

“Samuel Perlman? Might you be the Professor Perlman who dug out those statues from Lake Garda a few years ago?” he enquired, and at Samuel’s affirmative reply, he beamed, “That was amazing and terribly exciting. I would have loved to become an archaeologist. Not as much as an astronaut, but a close second.”

Annella was lighting up a cigarette in that way she had that showed precisely what she was thinking. I inhaled the smoke and Elio threw me a dirty look.

Ralph wanted us to go upstairs to his apartment, but Daniel came into the courtyard and took charge of the situation.

“You can’t expect Oliver to climb up that nefarious staircase,” he said, as he ushered us into the salon with view on the Grand Canal.

Ralph muttered something and shuffled away.

After the introductions had been made, Daniel informed that no progress had been made as to the identity of the gondola’s thief.

“I knew it would have been nearly impossible,” he said. “During Carnival, all the usual rules cease to apply. It’s a sort of madness.”

Rudy was sitting next to him, closer than he’d have been a few days ago. He realised that I’d noticed and cleared his throat.

“Madness more contained than in Casanova’s days,” Samuel argued. “The celebrations back then were not unlike frantic orgies.”

Daniel laughed, throwing his head back. Annella observed him then Rudy before turning to me and smiling, as though she was sharing a secret with me.

Elio was frowning at us, wondering what was going on; I took his hand and stroked the inside of his wrist with my thumb. It was enough to relax the tiny crinkles at the corner of his eyes. The slightest connection, the lightest touch between us was enough to soothe our worries.

“May we talk openly?” I asked.

Rudy glanced sideways at Daniel and replied: “I had already asked him about the inventory, so he knows about the papers.”

“I can’t wait to get stuck in,” Curtis said, raking an elegant hand through his hair, “Such interesting material, despite the questionable politics of its author.”

Samuel nodded, like a sage owl. “You can’t discount Pound’s genius,” he agreed. “Without him, there would have been no Waste Land, not in its current form.”

“The problem is that the papers have gone,” I said, explaining what Elio and I had found at the Ghetto.

“Oliver had a hunch,” Elio said, looking at me with unconcealed pride. “We are here to jog his memory.”

“To be completely honest,” Samuel intervened, “I also wanted to see your beautiful home and take a look at your gondola.”

“Your family hosted one of my favourite novelists,” Annella said.

“Do you really like Henry James,” asked Daniel, “Because I find that most people are in awe of his fame, but not as passionate about his works.”

“The short stories are easier to digest, I suppose,” she replied, with an engaging smile.

“The Aspern Papers,” said Curtis, “You might almost suspect me of having engineered the entire plot in order to recreate the story in the setting where it was written.”

Rudy coughed. “No one would believe it,” he said. “You would never harm one of your guests during a party.”

Daniel laughed and leaned against Rudy, making the latter blush a little. “That’s true,” he agreed. “Guests are sacred, that’s what I’ve been taught since I was in the cradle.”

“You were never in a cradle,” muttered Rudy.

 

Curtis took us to the back courtyard where the gondola was in its place, on the stilts. Annella and Samuel were treated to a couple of anecdotes about the vessel and the questions they asked delighted Daniel, even as he tried to disguise his emotions.

We finally made our way to the well chamber.

It seemed unreal that I’d been there not long ago: I felt no dread or anger, just a vivid curiosity.

“It’s splendid craftsmanship,” Samuel was saying. “You couldn’t tell that there was a well here.”

Annella agreed, and she kneeled down to inspect the floor.

“ _Trompe-l’oeil_ ,” Daniel said, “We paid a fortune but it was worth it.”

It was then that I knew what had happened. Elio looked at me and saw it too.

 

“Olga told us when we first visited her,” I explained.

Daniel was pouring tea into the porcelain cups while I talked.

“She was expecting a painter,” I went on. “Who was supposed to do a _trompe-l’oeil_ mural with arches and columns at the Hidden Nest. He never turned up, she said.”

Elio’s face was a study in rapt attention. I felt like I imagined countless detectives must have felt when trying to impress their sidekicks.

“Yes, that’s true,” he exclaimed. “And when we saw her again, Larry was there. Wait, you don’t think that it was Larry?”

I shook my head.

“When Olga told us about him, she said he’d been sent by a gallery in London, while the artist that she’d been expecting was not a portrait painter.”

Elio’s mouth gaped open. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“The other artist was sent by Jane Ryland, I assume,” Rudy interjected.

“Yes, but he never turned up,” I replied, “We didn’t question why and were distracted by Larry’s presence. Since Olga didn’t mention it again, we took for granted that the two were one and the same, but they weren’t.”

“Who is this mysterious painter and why did he give up a commission?” asked Annella.

Samuel winked at me. “Maybe he didn’t give it up altogether,” he said.

Elio was biting his lips and I wanted to kiss them.

“There is one person we haven’t met once since we got to know Olga,” I continued. “We’ve heard about him but never laid our eyes on him.”

I saw him digest this information and reach the same conclusion I had hit upon.

“Larry’s boyfriend,” he exclaimed, “The one that lives in Burano.”

I nodded, “Plenty of artists live in Burano, or so we have been told.”

Rudy and Daniel concurred that it was the case.

“My next question is: who did you hire to paint that well-head?”

Daniel made a face.

“I wasn’t here when the work was done,” he replied. “We’ll have to ask my sister Patricia, but she’s in Cortina now. I’ll find her, don’t worry.”

“Maybe Ralph knows the artist,” Elio ventured.

“My brother does not concern himself with the upkeep of the Palazzo,” Curtis replied. “I will ask him, but please don’t pin your hopes on him.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to go directly to Larry and ask him?” Annella said.

“Yes, but he’s probably involved too,” Rudy replied. “In which case, he’ll alert his accomplice and that’s one thing we don’t want to do.”

“I don’t think he knows what’s going on,” Elio said. “He’s been manipulated by the person he loves.”

“You don’t know that,” insisted Rudy. “If this man gained access to the room where the papers are hidden, he must have had a key. The contract was witnessed by Larry, wasn’t it?”  I nodded, and he went on, “Only an idiot wouldn’t have put two and two together.”

“Love does strange things to people,” Samuel said, looking at his son, who was staring into the void and thinking some unhappy thoughts. I touched him again and he shook himself off, returning to the present.

“I trust Larry,” he stated, stubbornly. “He would never harm Oliver or anybody else. He’s been played, same as we have.”

“All the same,” said Rudy. “I’d rather we kept this to ourselves for the moment being. It gives us an advantage over him. Once we find out where he lives, he will lead us to the papers. I bet they won’t do anything much now, since their best bet is to stay put and wait for our next move.”

Daniel was gazing at Rudy with deep fondness. It was the first time he’d left his guard down and it didn’t last more than a few instants.

“Why don’t we go see Ralph,” I suggested. “While you try and find your sister.”

Elio caught my drift and so did his parents.

We left the two friends alone and returned to the courtyard.

“An interesting man,” Samuel remarked. “Rudy has met his match.”

“You’re not doing that again, I hope,” said his son. “Match-making, I mean.”

Something like hurt traversed Perlman’s face. “I wouldn’t presume of doing anything of the kind,” he said. “I only wish my friends to be as happy as they can be.”

“I’m sorry,” Elio replied, looking contrite.

Annella hugged him and kissed his cheek. He smiled at his father, who was tousling his hair. “Elly-belly,” the latter said. “We are always here for you, you know that.” He turned towards me, “And for you, my dear Oliver.”

It felt like a warm embrace and I basked in its comfortable hold.

 

Ralph was in the Space Room listening to one of his tapes.

Luckily for us, lift-off had already happened, so the noise wasn’t too loud and he could hear us knocking at the door.

“Is that Apollo 15?” asked Samuel and our host nearly burst out of his skin.

“Yes, how did you guess?” he enthused.

They embarked on a conversation we could barely follow, so we went to the window to gaze at the view, while Annella admired the frescoes on the ceiling and tried to decrypt their meaning.

Ten minutes later, we finally managed to tell Ralph the main reason of our visit. We didn’t expect anything, so we were stunned by his reply.

“Of course I know him,” Ralph said. “Not a very nice man, but great at his job and very charismatic. There were rumours about him, but I can’t stand gossip.”

“What rumours?” I asked.

“That he had been in prison, at the Giudecca,” he replied. “I doubt it or it wouldn’t be just a rumour.”

“What’s his name?” Elio enquired.

“Eddy Seguso,” Ralph replied. “Edoardo, to be precise, but he’s known as Eddy. He has a house in Burano, but he moves around a lot, same as me.”

“Do you have his address?” I asked.

“Not as such, but it’s not hard to find. It will be in the phone book, I imagine. What I do have, though, is his toe print, if you want to see it.”

Samuel stared at him but didn't laugh.

“Maybe next time,” I replied, and Ralph took it as a bona-fide promise.

 

Daniel and Rudy were waiting for us at the bottom of the staircase.

“Eddy Seguso,” I said, and saw Rudy’s expression change.

“I should have guessed,” he sighed.

“Do you know him?” Elio asked.

“His name often comes up when Save Venice is about to embark on a restoration project, but some members have vetoed him because of his reputation. In fact, I’m surprised you hired him,” he said, frowning at Curtis.

“I told you I wasn’t here when it happened and Patricia is fond of, how shall I put it,” he directed his dazzling smile at Annella, “My sister is attracted to younger men of a certain type.”

“The type that doesn’t have any scruples?” suggested Professor Perlman.

Daniel chuckled. “Got it in one,” he replied.

“Jane Ryland is about your sister’s age isn’t she?” said Rudy.

“I can’t say for sure but, yes, that’s plausible.”                                                         

“Why haven’t you thought of him from the start?” I wondered.

“I haven’t seen him around in a while,” replied Rudy. “I thought he’d left for good. He was always complaining that Venice was too provincial for him.”

“Has he ever been in prison?” Elio asked.

Rudy smiled. “No, that’s just a silly rumour. He went to stay at the Giudecca for a while. He was staying at Hundertwasser’s place.”

“The secret garden,” Samuel chimed in, explaining that Rose Lambert had told them about it.

“That’s where the gondola was found,” Elio exclaimed, “Among the reeds, close to the Giudecca Island.”


	38. Siren Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy smut and projects for the future.
> 
> A sweet intermezzo, because we need soft boys being soft.
> 
> Oliver's POV

 

I vainly tried to convince Elio that I wasn’t tired, but he was adamant that I should go home and rest.

“Stay with your parents,” I urged him. The Perlmans were due to return home on the following Wednesday, which left only two full days in which Elio could enjoy their company.

Annella took one look at her son and smiled. “We are not going very far,” she replied. “You can come and stay with us whenever you want.”

Of course she was right: if we hired a car, it would take us a couple of hours to drive to Bergamo, which is where they lived during the rest of the year. I had been so used to seeing the villa as the embodiment of the unattainable that I hadn’t considered how close it was to Venice.

“I’m not an invalid,” I insisted.

“Rudy wanted to show me part of the collection of the Fondazione Querini, and Annella is going to play bridge with Rose and her friends,” Samuel replied. “If you like, we could take you out for dinner. There’s a nice Osteria near Rialto that I’ve always wanted to revisit.”

We agreed the hour and the location and went our separate ways.

 

“We should tell Olga,” Elio said, as we made our way back home. “She could be in danger.”

I shook my head. “She’s safer this way. Not that I believe they’d do anything to her: that would be too drastic and it would be illegal. Everything they have done up to this moment is borderline within the law. The papers might not have been in those boxes; there is no conclusive way of proving it.”

“Larry doesn’t know he’s being used,” he argued.

“You can’t be sure of that until we speak to him,” I said. “We have to be extremely cautious. First we find out where the papers are hidden and then we deal with the rest.”

He squeezed my arm. “You better be careful and stay away from the water.”

I smirked. “That’s impossible unless I never leave the apartment.”

“That could be arranged,” he replied, arching his brows.

“The prisoner of Cannaregio,” I joked. “A passable title for a novel; not as glamorous as The Count of Monte Cristo but not bad either.”

“Would you mind being my prisoner?” he asked, softly.

“I thought I already was,” I replied, stroking the inside of his wrist. “And no, I don’t mind at all.”

 

It had been a cold day and I couldn’t deny that I was glad of being in bed with a hot drink and my even hotter boyfriend.

While I was reading the Herald Tribune which Peter Lambert had left on our doormat, Elio answered the phone, whose annoying ring we’d already ignored once.

He sauntered back into the bedroom, an enthusiastic expression on his face.

“Guess what,” he exclaimed, as he slid underneath the covers. “It was Foscari. He said he’s found a pianist for the Fenice orchestra.”

I stared at him in surprise. “I thought you were going back on Saturday.”

Elio hummed and snuggled closer. “Yes, but he asked me if I liked where my career was going and I said, not really, but it was decent money and a safe position. But that was before, you see?”  I did see.

“He asked me if I’d like to work with him at the Malibran,” he went on. “We’d have recitals and operas on a much smaller scale than at the Fenice, but I’d be jointly responsible for the programme. He wishes to promote new talents but also to pay homage to the Venetian heritage.”

“You were talking about going on tour as a concert pianist,” I remarked.

“Yes, in the future, possibly,” he replied. “I need to regain my confidence and in order to do that, I have to be allowed to make mistakes and grow from them. I can’t do that while performing in a mediocre orchestra.”

I was gazing at him with what must have been adoring eyes.

“That’s amazing,” I said, “I’m so proud of you.”

He flushed a little and I took him in my arms.

“What about the conservatory?”

“I’ll finish the academic year and resign,” he replied. “Anyway, I’d rather have something secure to fall back on.”

“Always the voice of wisdom,” I whispered, earning myself a bite on the jaw.

We lay in each other’s arms and made out for a while. It didn’t lead to anything: we kissed because we needed it, like air or food.

“This is my favourite spot,” I said, dotting his throat with kisses.

“And this is mine,” he replied, nuzzling my chest. His hot breath was tickling the fold of my armpit.

“I didn’t like you, back then,” he said. His head was on my shoulder and my lips in his curls.

I waited for him to explain even though I suspected what he meant.

“I was attracted to you, lusted after you then fell in love with you, but I did not _like_ you. You were the finite product while I was a work in progress. I hated it when I looked at myself in the mirror, but you, you were always impeccable, with your muscles and your blond hair and your skimpy shorts.”

I sniggered, remembering the items in question. He reached down to touch the waistband of my boxers; it made me shiver.

“Do you like me now?” I asked.

He pushed his hand inside; I charted its progress, unable to draw breath.

“Yes, I do,” he murmured. “You need me as much as I need you.”

“I need you more,” I choked out. “I want you all the time.”

Elio uttered a sound which was midway between a giggle and a sigh.

“You are so,” he grunted, “I want to crawl all over you and never let you go.”

His fingers had found my cock and were stroking it to hardness; it was a matter of moments and I was fully erect. He was moving down my body, but I had other ideas.

“Together,” I pleaded, “Like on our first night.”

Elio looked me in the eye and bit his lips. “What didn’t we do that night,” he said.

I closed my eyes against the onslaught of sensations.

“I don’t want to press on your bruises,” he whispered.

We kissed again, our tongues flailing in a desperate dance.

“Okay,” he husked, “Yes, fuck, yes.”

It wasn’t easy to fit our bodies in the sixty-nine position, but once we’d found the right angle, it was bliss: his cock in my mouth, mine in his; we moaned and swore, sucked and licked, and finally shot our loads seconds apart.

“Come up here,” I begged, trying to dislodge Elio who was happily nuzzling my groin.

“Don’t want to,” he muttered. “Love the smell of your crotch.”

I groaned. “And I love your mouth after you’ve given head.”

That seemed to do the trick.

He was in my arms again, his eyes shining and pure green. His lips were swollen and the colour of smudged coral lip-gloss.

“You like this uh?” he gave both his lips a generous lick with the tip of his tongue.

I didn’t answer, but devoured his mouth in a deep, greedy kiss. Elio let me take control, melting into me, and I lost myself in the sensuous embrace of his soft sweaty skin.

 

“I can walk without the stick, see?”

My ankle wasn’t pain-free, but with a tighter bandage and a pair of sturdy boots, I could manage unaided.  

Elio was buttoning up his shirt and turned to glare at me.

“Not sure it’s a good idea,” he said. “Why not wait until tomorrow?”

I paced the room to show him that I was alright. He observed me intently, but the frown did not leave his face.

“What is it,” I enquired. “You will be there; your dad will be there too. If I need help, I’m sure that between the two of you---”

I stopped, gazed at his preoccupied little face, and tried another approach.

“There is something you are not telling me,” I hazarded, “Out with it, Perlman! We said no more secrets between us, remember?”

Elio scrunched up his nose and looked away.

“You’ll laugh at me,” he said.

“Not if it matters to you.”

He let out a long sigh.

“I think it’s sexy, okay? You, all scruffy and blue-eyed with that stick in your hands: it does things to me and I’m--- I’m the most selfish boyfriend in the world.”

I was trying to keep my promise and not laugh, but I had to swallow twice and scratch the back of my neck in order to stay serious.

“Kinky little shit,” I said. We held each other’s gaze for a few moments then burst out laughing. I sat on the bed and pulled him down on my lap.

“I’ll give you one more evening,” I whispered in his ear. “And I expect to be lavishly compensated later, in this bed.”

I took his moan as a yes.

 

The Osteria dei Botteri was a traditional Venetian eatery: a vaulted ceiling with exposed wood beams, mahogany panelling on the walls, subdued lighting and the delicious smell of grilled fish.

Samuel knew the proprietor, a bald man who looked like a contented friar.

“Sammy _carissimo_ ,” the man – Arrigo – exclaimed as soon we set foot inside his restaurant. “Such a long time, too long; is this your son? He looks like his beautiful mother.”

He looked at me with his round, rather bulging eyes and smiled. “American, aren’t you? We don’t have people as tall as you over here. Are you perhaps a cowboy?”

Annella laughed. “He used to be,” she replied, touching my arm.

We were given the best table, which was in a secluded corner but near a window with view on the Canal; in the distance, we could see the dainty colonnades of the Ca’ d’Oro.

The waiter brought us water and breadsticks together with the menus. We discussed the dishes listed and Arrigo hurried back to inform us that the _fritto misto_ was just out of the pan and that we shouldn’t miss it for the world. We couldn’t argue with him and when the platter came, sprinkled with fresh lemon juice, we agreed we’d made the right choice.

Elio was telling his parents about Foscari’s offer when I heard a well-known voice order a shot of grappa.

“Mario,” I waved at him and he came over to our table.

Samuel insisted Mario joined us, so he pulled up a chair and ordered a bottle of Verdicchio.

“Congratulations are in order,” he said, raising a glass to Elio, who blushed but was evidently pleased, “To the most talented young artist in the city.”

We all cheered and drank to Elio’s future.

Afterwards, while the Perlmans chatted about family matters with their son, I asked Mario about Seguso.

“Speaking of young artists, I bet you know Eddy Seguso,” I said, and he made a face.

“The siren call,” he replied. “Ludovico always said he was a bad apple, and he was right. Lucky for me, I never fell into that trap.”

“Did he try, I mean, did you have a thing with him?”

Mario smiled wryly. “He’s not my type, thank god. He might be yours though, so be careful and tread lightly.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry about me, I have tunnel vision: I only see Elio.”

As soon as heard his name mentioned, my boyfriend looked at me. Yes, I thought, I was in no danger from any other siren but my own.


	39. Eddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes a-visiting and Elio does chiropody...
> 
> Oliver's POV

 

Monday came and with it a timid sunshine and the first signs of spring.

Elio had gone to the Malibran to see Foscari and I’d promised him I wouldn’t – as he put it – ‘get into trouble’.

I figured that a short trip to the Hidden Nest wouldn’t count as trouble and since it was milder and drier than of late, I wouldn’t risk tumbling into the canal. My ankle was almost healed: the swelling had gone down and the only pain I felt was due to the bruising and that was more of a tingle than an ache.

The Perlmans were spending the day at the Lido with a couple of old friends but we were going to have dinner with them at Palazzo Barbaro. Daniel’s sister Patricia had returned from Cortina and the invitation was a ruse so that we could talk to her about Seguso without seeming to interrogate her.

The night before had been a great success: the food and company had been excellent and when we’d got back, Elio had treated me to a torturously slow but hard fuck; it had left me exhausted and slick with sweat, but also dizzy and emotional, on the brink of happy tears. His eyes had stared into mine the whole time, like two glittery stones that drilled into my core. _Elio_ , I’d screamed, _Elio please, please._

And he’d ground his teeth and pushed deeper into me, hissing profanities and repeating one word – _mine_ \- so many times it had lost its meaning and turned into a password, a spell, an open-sesame.

I winced as I remembered the swell of his cock inside me, and had to put it out of my mind before it got me hot all over.

In Dorsoduro, I breathed the freshly scented air and admired the cupola of Santa Maria della Salute as I approached Calle Querini.

 

I knocked at the door and prepared to wait a while, but it took only a few seconds before I was face to face with Larry. I had a sense of déjà-vu.

He was wearing a painter smock which was streaked blue and red. His cheek had a blue smudge that made him look younger than he was.

It was clear that I wasn’t the person he was expecting.

“Oh that’s you,” he muttered.

“May I come in?” I asked, and he stepped aside to let me pass.

“Olga’s not here,” he explained. “She was meeting someone from the States, she said, but didn’t tell me anything more. The only other thing she said was that she was going to Santa Lucia Station, so she must have taken a train.”

“Was she alone or was someone waiting for her outside?”

Larry scratched the side of his nose, smearing it with paint; the messier he got the younger he looked.

“No, there was nobody, I’m sure of it,” he replied and then, casting me a sheepish look, he added, “I’m afraid that I spied on her a little. I looked out of my window, but the Calle was deserted. Do you think I should have followed her to the embankment?”

“You had no reason to be worried about her,” I replied, “Or did you?”

His eyes widened in surprise.

“After what happened to you? I’d be crazy not to be,” he said.

I decided it was time to broach the subject I’d been avoiding from the start.

“Who were you expecting,” I said, avoiding his gaze, “Your friend, perhaps?”

When I looked at him again, hurt and bitterness had restored his features back to maturity.

“No, he never comes here to visit,” he replied, “I always have to go to him.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He snorted and brushed both hands down the front of his smock.

“He has all sorts of reasons,” he replied.

“And you don’t believe him,” I suggested.

He sighed and started to walk away. “I won’t criticise him behind his back. Who am I to know what he’s had to endure because of what he is? Italy doesn’t much like us, even if Venice seems to be different.”

I wondered if he knew that his ‘friend’ had trysts with older women, and I sincerely doubted it.

I followed him up to his studio and gazed at the canvas on the easel, expecting to see the likeness of Olga Rudge. Instead, it was the face of a very handsome young man that stared back at me. He had dark almond-shaped eyes and full red lips; his wavy brown hair was parted in the middle and reached down to his bony, bare shoulders. He was slim and elegant, almost like a Modigliani model.

“Is that him?”

Larry nodded and blushed.

He’s in trouble, I thought, the same kind of trouble I am in. Only I shared that trouble with Elio, while Larry was probably being used and would be discarded in the near future. If Elio had been with me, I was sure that he’d have told Larry about our suspicions, but I didn’t say a word.

“Was he posing for you?”

He laughed.

“No, he can’t stay still for long. This is all from memory.”

I felt like I should change the subject.

“Are you coming the Poetry Festival tomorrow night?” I asked.

Larry blinked a few times, as though I’d pointed a flash-light straight in his face.

“Maybe,” he replied, “I’m waiting for a phone call. I may have to go to Burano; I’m not sure yet.”

I sensed that he wanted me gone: not because he resented my presence, but in order to better concentrate on his heartache and on its cause.

“Call me if you hear from Olga,” I said, as I left, “And I hope to meet you at the Festival.”

“Oliver?”

I went back into the room.

“I’m glad you are feeling better. Elio must have been terrified,” he said.

I remembered with a start that I knew the name of his friend, that he’d told me, and that there had been a reference to the affair they’d embarked on after they’d met in London. Just a fling, he’d said.

“Dado is very attractive,” I said, “Is that short for---”

“Edoardo,” he replied, looking once again uneasy. “Eddy would be the usual nickname, but he wanted to get away from that.”

I bet he did, I thought.

“I don’t wish to pry, but you told me that you two had a _thing_ in London---”

He didn’t let me finish. “It was never that,” he said, quickly, “I was always,” he rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles. “Always, you see?”

Oh yes, I replied, I do see.

 

That afternoon, Elio was a whirlwind of enthusiasm: Foscari had introduced him to the pianist who was going to take his place at the Fenice. They’d had a meeting with the orchestra director and everything had been settled in a satisfactory manner. It hadn’t been all smooth sailing, but it was done, and Elio was free to take up his new position at the Malibran. Adriana was also on board, and so was her boyfriend. I liked them both, so I was glad that Elio was in such good and talented company.

“And what about you,” he enquired, as he undressed, layer after layer.

I mumbled something about going for a walk along the Canal. His head emerged from the sweater he’d been wearing over his white t-shirt: I noticed that it was my sweater, the one he’d never returned to me. I was so distracted by the sight that I didn’t catch his piercing stare.

“What are you hiding?” he said, and in two strides he came up to me.

I had no intention of lying to his face. Not that I could have, the way he was glaring at me.

“Don’t get mad, okay?”

He was already mad, but I let that pass.

“I went to see Olga.”

“We better sit down,” he said, and it sounded very much like an order.

On the couch, he raised my leg, placed it on his lap and started to massage my foot.

“How is she?” he asked, while he pulled softly at my toes.

“I don’t know, she wasn’t there,” I replied. The cunning minx knew how to trick me into losing my cool.

“Where was she?”  He ground his thumb into the arch and drew tight circles into my flesh. I closed my eyes and smothered a sigh. I told Elio everything, keeping nothing back. After I was done, I must have dozed off for a moment. I was brought back to my senses by Elio’s stern tone.

“What if he had been there,” he was saying. “He might have hit you on the head or even shot you.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” I argued, trying to calm him down. “He’s not an assassin.”

“How can you tell?” he enquired, grabbing my calf with one hand and squeezing.

“It’s not his modus operandi; he might be a criminal, but he’s got some style.”

Elio’s mouth was a thin compressed line.

“You said Larry is painting Eddy’s portrait,” he wrapped one hand around my ankle while the other did sinful magic things to my foot. “Tell me about it.”

I described it in what I believed were objective, matter-of-fact terms.

“You fancy him,” he said, tersely. “He’s just your type.”

“I don’t have a type,” I replied. “And if I had one, it wouldn’t be Eddy Seguso.”

He chuckled. “You fucking liar,” he exclaimed, but I could see that the storm had come and gone. He grasped my foot in both his hands and bent down to kiss it.

“There,” he murmured. “All better now.”

 

Patricia Curtis was as unlike Jane Ryland as two middle-aged women could be: while the latter was short and chubby, the former was tall and angular. She had short brown hair and wore a manly cut trouser-suit that fitted her like a glove. Her brother Ralph had called her a snob, and her manner was haughty at first sight, but it improved once she found some common ground with her interlocutor.

Her great passion was her home, Palazzo Barbaro, and she found in Samuel and Annella two knowledgeable and agreeable guests. Daniel and Rudy had evidently moved to the next stage in their relationship, as they seemingly ignored each other, but always knew what the other was saying. We were served post-dinner drinks in Patrizia’s _piano nobile_ ’s salon, which looked immense without the crowds of the masked ball.

She approached me and led me towards one of the balconies.

“Daniel told me about the well,” she said. The window was open and cool air made her shiver.

“No harm done,” I replied. “Maybe it was just a stupid prank.”

“A guest of ours shouldn’t have gone that far,” she stated, coldly. “Besides, that particular room isn’t easy to find.”

“It’s interesting in its peculiar way.”

Her eyes lit up.

“The cover of the well is an excellent _trompe-l'œil_ _,_ ” she enthused. “The artist surpassed himself.”

I nodded. “Your brother told me that the artist lives in Burano.”

She stared straight ahead of her, at the view or maybe at a vision inside her own head.

“Once he used to. But he’s gone now.”

I was reminded of the Browning poem Jane Ryland had quoted to me.

_There she stands, as if alive_

Patricia Curtis had come to life when she had spoken about Seguso, but she was once again remote, as though someone had turned off the switch of her life source.

“Where did he go?” I murmured, unwilling to break the spell.

“Abroad, I assume,” she replied. “He’d had enough of all the gossip. I love Venice but I take it in small doses.”

“Surely if he’s an artist, he must be used to being criticised.”

She made a sound of derision.

“No one is above that,” she argued. “Don’t believe those who pretend to be untouched by smears to their character.”

It was time to play my ace.

“He is in Venice as we speak,” I said. “A friend of mine is painting his portrait.”

“That’s impossible,” she spat, “He hates posing.”

“I never said that he was modelling, but I know for certain that he’s here in the city.”

She studied me with ferocious contempt.

“Are you insinuating that he pushed you into my well?”

“I’m quite sure that he did.”

“I’m not as sure that you didn’t deserve it,” she said, and moved away.

 


	40. Martedì Grasso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot... sort of thickens.  
> The boys have fun in the meantime...
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martedì Grasso = Mardi Gras = Last day of Carnival

Patricia Curtis had heard about Elio’s virtuoso performance at the fundraiser and she insisted he played something for us.

I recalled how ungracious Elio used to be when his parents coaxed him into providing entertainment for their various “dinner drudges”, but he was sweetness itself with our hostess.

“I hope you won’t find Debussy too trite,” he said, as he brushed the surface of the polished Steinway with his fingertips.

“Not at all,” she replied. “His music always reminds me of water and, by association, of home.”

After her little outburst, she wouldn’t look me in the eye, but she was extremely courteous when she offered me another cocktail; this told me that she regretted having let herself go in front of a stranger. I suspected that she also regretted her relationship – whatever its character – with Seguso, but given half a chance she’d rekindle it and treat it as an addiction: shameful but impossible to shake off.

Elio played Clair de Lune and I was transported back in time, watching Elio dive into the pond near the villa; the moonlight, the fitful song of the crickets, our wet kisses and slippery embraces; I had savoured them with the desperate cheerfulness of the terminally ill intent on disguising their pain. But the ache had always been there, dormant and vigilant, and it had struck when I had been at my weakest; usually before sunrise, when Elio slept next to me and I wondered how I could ever wake up and not find him there.

When the music stopped, his eyes searched mine and I saw – it wasn’t surmise but absolute certainty – that we had been on the same journey, that he too had been retracing the same memories. He was me and I was him, and yet he was also a mystery, one that I would spend my whole life decrypting.

 

Later, Daniel invited us to his apartment for one last drink. His sister was tired and excused herself, after having invited the Perlmans to her house on Lake Como; she handed them a card on which she scrawled a few words in her spiky cursive.

“What did she say to you?” Elio asked, as we left the salon.

I told him and he swore under his breath.

“If I had known, I wouldn’t have played for her.”

“She didn’t really mean it,” I said. “It was self-defence, in a way.”

He shrugged. “I don’t care about her reasons.”

I smiled and he rolled his eyes at me. “What,” he asked.

“You are cute when you are protective,” I replied.

I could have gotten into trouble but unfortunately we were not alone.

 

Daniel had arranged for his water taxi to take us and the Perlmans home.

Annella was chatting with Elio in French when Samuel turned to me and after a slight hesitation said, “That’s an incredible story, don’t you think?”

“Being thrown in a well by an artist disguised as a monkey,” I replied, “Yes, it’s hard to believe but it did happen.”

He became very serious. “I never said I doubted you, not for a second. But if you look at it from the perspective of an outsider, it reads like the plot of a second rate detective story: an Edgar Wallace, perhaps, or a minor Allingham.”

I nodded my head, let him continue.

“You are too steeped in it, but I have the advantage of detachment, and I believe something’s going on which you are not aware of yet. I can’t quite put my finger on it; it’s that sixth sense that alerts us when we are being spied upon.”

“I’ll keep Elio safe,” I said. He grinned and patted me on the back. “Or the other way round,” he joked.

 

The Perlmans refused the offer of one last drink for the road: they kissed us goodnight and waved at us from the boat as it sped away.

Elio was deep in thought and I didn’t want to disturb him.

“I’ll go first, if you don’t mind,” he said, stopping me in my tracks. We had ceased being coy a long time ago: often we used the bathroom at the same time, but I didn’t voice my objections; after all, he was entitled to his privacy.

I undressed and put on my dressing gown. Before that, I inspected myself in the mirror: the bruises were a sickly greenish yellow with some discoloured purple at the edges.

I heard Elio’s steps padding in the direction of the kitchen and his voice calling, “All yours now!”

What’s got into him, I wondered, while realising at the same time that I wasn’t worried like I’d have been only weeks ago; he’d tell me when he was ready.

I relieved myself, brushed my teeth and had a quick wash.

When I went back to the bedroom, Elio wasn’t there.

“You okay?” I shouted.

No answer.

“Are you in the kitchen?”

No answer.

The apartment was silent except for the distant splashing of water.

 

In the sitting room, the lights had been switched off except for the one on the side table, whose beam was directed towards the couch. The latter had been covered with a bed-sheet and kneeling on it was my naked boyfriend.

He was facing towards the back of the sofa, his ass on full display.

I was about to call his name, to say something, but something in the rigidity of his posture told me that he was playing a role.

While I stood frozen on the spot, my sex was admiring the view and wanting more of it: hard and wet, it was sticking out of my robe. I had only one practical thought in my head and it concerned lubricant. He must have felt my indecision, because he said, “No,” and, “Come here,” in a whip-lash tone that made my dick bounce.

I discarded my robe and ran up to him. As I approached, he arched his back and spread his thighs, deliriously beautiful.

 

The first brush of skin on skin made him moan; I bent down and licked up from his balls to his tail-bone. He helped me by spreading his ass-cheeks with his hands and when I shoved my tongue inside, I felt it immediately: he’d fingered himself while he was waiting for me; he wanted it dirty and I was eager to please him.

I closed my eyes when I pushed inside of him: just the tip at first, in and out, again and again, until he groaned in frustration. By then I’d calmed down a little, and could look at him, at us. His back was sweaty and flushed and one of his hands was reaching back for me.

“Jesus,” I hissed, and plunged inside of him.

He made a sound deep in his throat, of intense, almost sadistic pleasure, and circled his hips to better feel the girth and length of my cock.

I was breathing fast and my heart was pulsing behind my pupils, but Elio was squeezing me tight and I lost all control. I placed one foot on the couch, grabbed his sides, and rammed into him, flesh imprinting on flesh, until I came with a scream. The semen was leaking out of him and he felt it; he said, “I want it, give it to me,” then swung around and lapped at my dick; his tongue was everywhere and he sucked it clean in a matter of seconds.

I collapsed on the sofa and he climbed on my lap, straddling it.

“Come on my chest,” I husked, and he smirked, this little siren of mine. I wrapped my hand around his and in no time I was covered in Elio’s spunk. I held him in my arms and kissed his mouth, which still tasted of me.

 

“You’ll give me a stroke one of these days,” I joked, as we lay in bed side by side, spent and very happy.

“I wanted to test if your ankle was healed,” he replied.

“So that was a test fuck?”

He giggled.

“Maybe, a bit,” he pinched my cheek, “No, it was spur of the moment. Blame it on the Debussy.”

“That’s a new one.”

“I’m being serious,” he said, with that expression he wore which reminded me of a strict professor and that evoked the image of a young Samuel. “That piece I played tonight, I’d played it once that summer.”

“More than once,” I argued.

“Yes, but there was one afternoon when you had gone to swim with the others and I stayed at the villa---”

“Because of your allergy,” I winked, and he pulled my hair.

“I was angry since you were ignoring me so I played Debussy until I calmed down.”

“Did it work?”

He yanked at my hair again, and bit down on his lips.

“Not really. I went up to my room and jacked off like a maniac.”

“Did you,” I whispered, leaning closer to kiss him. “Thinking of me, I hope.”

“I was always thinking of you,” he replied, and his tongue came out to meet mine.

 

 

It was the last day of carnival, the _Martedì Grasso_ , and the city was crowded with tourists, most of them wearing masks and costumes.

Even the usually unfrequented calle which ran along the side of our Palazzo was teeming with people.

Elio and I stood by the open window sipping our morning coffee and basking in the sunshine.

“We should phone Olga,” he said. “Find out whether she’s returned. And then we’ll have to tell her about the papers.”

“Yes and no,” I replied, “I’m convinced something will happen tonight.”

He stared at me. “Why tonight?”

“Something your dad said about this story being like a second-hand thriller,” I smiled at his annoyance. “And tonight there’ll be fireworks and noise. It is ideal for hiding a multitude of sins.”

“I thought we were going to that Poetry Festival.”

Mario had invited the Perlmans too and they had been overjoyed.

“Yes, and I expect to see many familiar faces.”

Elio snorted. “You won’t because they’ll all be wearing masks.”

I slapped his backside and he shrieked.

“That’s for being too smart,” I said.

He bit down on my upper arm, hard enough to leave a mark.

“And this is to remind you.”

“Remind me of what?”

“How much you like me.”

A lot, I thought, an awful fucking lot.

 

Olga answered the phone after the tenth ring. She sounded breathless but rather cheerful. I asked her if Larry had told her about my visit of the previous day, but apparently he’d already left when she’d returned.

“May I ask where you went?”

“I took a train to Desenzano del Garda,” she enunciated it with gusto, “I always loved this name. Have you ever been there?”

“In passing, on my way to Sirmione,” I replied. “It was lovely.”

I waited for her to tell me more about it.

“I was meeting someone from Yale University. The genuine article, this time,” she snickered. “Professor Eastman is on a pre-acquisition tour, or something along those lines.”

“He’ll want to see the papers.”

“Yes, and what better time than Lent, when peace and quiet reign supreme,” she replied.

I was silent for a moment, trying to decide whether to spill the beans, and she went on talking.

“He’ll be here on Friday, on his way back from Florence and Mantua.”

That gave us time to try and find them before telling Olga about their disappearance.

“I have seen the portrait Larry is working on,” I said, “Have you ever met the model?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t know. Young skinny boys all look the same at my age.”

I asked what her plans were for the evening but she was still tired from the trip and was going to stay at home and rest.

As soon as I put the received down, the phone rang again.

It was Ralph, of all people.

“Don’t name names,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “But I have that address for you.”

He gave it to me then repeated it slowly and then – like a magician revealing a trick - he added, “It’s not in Burano; it’s in Venice and not far from your Palazzo.”


	41. Mandolin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of Carnival... 
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the story is getting long and after a while things get tedious, but please be patient, we are getting close to the ending. Bear with me a little bit more... xoxo

 

Ralph’s words had stunned me and that’s how Elio found me, with my hand still cradling the receiver.

“Bad news?” he asked, frowning.

I told him the gist of the two conversations I'd just had.

“He’s been spying on us,” he stated, looking fiery, “I haven’t been here for long, which means that before I came to stay, he was spying on _you_!”

“I doubt he would go as far as that,” I replied, in a placating tone. “He’s probably moved to Cannaregio when he found out about the papers.”

Elio wasn’t listening: he strode to the window and pulled the curtains.

“What are you doing?” I enquired, trying not to smile. “He can’t see us from Calle Larga.”

He snorted. “You don’t know where he is and what he’s doing. He dressed up in a costume exactly like mine to lure you into a trap.”

“ _Lure me_ ,” I joked, “Your dad was right: this is like a Wallace mystery.”

“Maybe it started up as a game, but now since he’s met you it’s turned into an obsession.”

I went up to him and stroked his hair.

“May I remind you once again that he pushed me into a well and left me there?”

Elio’s piercing eyes bore into me.

“He must have thought you’d be attracted to that,” he murmured. “You liked it when I bit you, remember?”

“Yeah, because it was you,” I replied, holding his gaze. “You are the common denominator of all the things I enjoy being done to me.”

He sighed and leaned on me.

“We’ve got to find those damn papers,” he said.

“I have a feeling we won’t have to wait too long,” I caressed his nape and the hollow between his shoulder-blades, “That something’s about to happen.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” he quoted.

“Except it isn’t my thumbs,” I argued, pulling him flush against me.

“Pervert,” he huffed, grabbing my ass with both hands.

“Ever since I met you, I am obsessed.”

He laughed throwing his head back. I was and always would be, obsessed.

 

Palazzo Zaguri was a late gothic palazzo in Campo San Maurizio.

In the past, the Erotic Poetry Festival had been held out in the piazza, but due to the inclement weather the powers that be had found a more appropriate venue.

Even more so – as Samuel informed us – considering that one of the historical owners, a certain Pietro Antonio Zaguri, had been a poet and a friend of Mozart’s librettist Lorenzo Da Ponte; he’d also been the patron of Giacomo Casanova.

Mario had explained that dressing up was entirely optional and that the traditional masks would be provided at the entrance. No one was to be admitted to the main salon without that basic disguise.

Elio and I both wore dark suits; Annella was dazzling in a long plum-coloured satin dress while Samuel’s tweeds made him look like a country gentleman.

We had barely set foot inside the door, when a well-known voice greeted us.

“What a marvellous quartet,” Ludovico said, admiring Annella in his typical shameless way. “Have these boys told you about my latest work?”

The Perlmans were swept away by the artist, leaving us to our own devices. It wasn’t long before Mario spotted us.

“You are not wearing a mask,” said Elio.

“Only in the inner courtyard,” Stefani explained. “In a moment, we’ll go up to the _piano nobile_ where the celebrations will begin in earnest.”

“Are the poems so filthy as to require anonymity?” I joked.

He winked at me. “This is Italy, my friend: of course they are filthy. Baffo was a celebrated libertine.”

Dozens of elegantly attired guests were streaming in; many of them were young, probably students. Elio spotted one or two familiar faces from his Conservatory, but he did not care to be recognised.

Ten minutes or so later, a bell rang and we were ushered up the open stairway. Before we entered the salon, a tall caped man in a _bauta_ handed us the white full-face masks we were supposed to wear. Each had a veil attached to it, in order to fully conceal the head of the wearer.

The room itself was only slightly smaller than that of Palazzo Barbaro and it was similarly adorned with frescoes and stuccos. The chandeliers were more dilapidated and the general atmosphere was louche rather than lavish. There were a few benches and chairs, but it was clear that the guests were expected to lounge on the cushions that were scattered all over the floor. A couple of waiters were distributing drinks and the printed programmes. I was wondering whether I should leave a tip, but the man had already moved on.

Elio sipped the liquid inside the flute glass: it wasn’t easy to do with a mask on so they had provided straws.

“Two of these and I’m gonna be shit-faced,” he announced.

I tried mine and my eyes watered.

“It’s like pure alcohol,” I agreed.

The noise of people chatting and glasses clinking died down when the lights went off. The door at the opposite end of the salon opened to a procession of people carrying candelabra. We couldn’t tell if they were men of women, for they were masked and wearing floor-length tunics.

The Master of Ceremonies – it wasn’t Mario as I’d expected, but it was a man – closed the procession. He climbed onto the makeshift stage, on which were a low table and an armchair.

“Tonight the Company of the Antichi celebrates the life and works of two renowned Venetian wits, Zorzi Alvise Baffo and Paolo Emanuele Zane Cope Zancopè. A selection of their poems will be read out and after that, twenty-six new poems which we have chosen among the many that were sent to us. The lewdest and most scandalous but also the funniest and most intelligent: it’s up to you to decide who the winner is.”

 

The poems were graphically explicit: juicy wet pussies and erect, dribbling cocks were the order of the day, and I was glad that Elio’s parents were with De Luigi and not with us. After five or six readings, and half way through my second drink, I was feeling decidedly horny. Elio was caressing my thigh, inching closer to my crotch with every up-stroke.

“I need to piss,” I told him, which was true but also an excuse to get some fresh air.

He nodded, distractedly. As soon as I moved away, he lay down on my cushion and closed his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep,” I said. He giggled and tried to grab me.

It was only when I was in the hallway that I realised I didn’t know where to go. Luckily, some provident soul had affixed a poster with an arrow that indicated that the toilets were upstairs.

I was doing my business when I heard someone come in; soon after there was the sound of running water: it gave me a sense of déjà vu.

My heart sped up but otherwise I was calm.

I flushed the toilet and zipped up my pants.

Two deep breaths later I was flinging the door open, expecting the same man who had abducted me at Palazzo Barbaro.

 

“Get back inside,” he urged me.

I couldn’t tell if it was Seguso: the face and voice were altered by the mask and the only time I’d seen him in the flesh, he’d been wearing a monkey costume.

The alcohol was still clouding my senses, but I was alert enough to see that I was bigger than him and that I could neutralise him easily.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said. “I only want privacy.”

His accent was vaguely familiar.

I followed him inside the cubicle.

“The papers, I know where they are,” he whispered, taking a piece of crumpled paper from one of his pockets and handing it to me. “Turn around and count to ten.”

“This is silly,” I said, and started laughing because it really was silly. He shoved me against the wall and I nearly lost my balance. He ran out and I followed him as quick as I could, but the corridor was dark and his footsteps soon faded into silence.

 

“You won’t believe what just happened to me,” I said to Elio.

The salon was full of laughter and smoke.

Elio rolled over and rested his head in my lap.

“ _Facciamo sano sesso, facciamolo spesso, facciamolo adesso_ ,” he replied.

Someone clapped and cheered.

I felt myself blush under the mask, as he nuzzled my abdomen.

“It’s my favourite poem,” he mumbled. “It’s called Mandolin.”

He laughed and pulled me down to him. “Your ass is shaped like one,” he whispered.

“You’re shit-faced”

“Told you,” he declared, proudly.

The reading continued and no one was paying attention to us.

“Let’s go,” I said, and helped him back on to his feet. He staggered and swayed, but we eventually made it out of the salon.

I removed my mask and his and dropped them into the empty basket by the door.

Elio was flushed and his eyes were hazy.

“I should have written a poem for you,” he said, looking very dejected.

“Better not.”

“But your ass deserves a poem,” he insisted, shaking his head. “More than one: an entire collection of madrigals.”

I kissed his lips to shut him up and, to my surprise, it worked.

We walked out into Campo San Maurizio: the air was colder but pleasant after the stifling atmosphere of the salon.

The piazza was dotted with revellers and the cobblestones were covered with confetti and streamers.

I put the piece of paper in his hand.

“Someone gave me this when I went to piss.”

He stared at me as though I’d gone mad.

“What, are you serious?”

I recounted what had happened and he gaped at me, open-mouthed.

“It’s where we thought they would be.”

He smoothed out the paper and read what was written on it.

“There’s even a map, like in a treasure hunt,” he marvelled.

“Not only a secret garden, but a secret garden with a buried treasure and on an island with a prison.”

Elio laughed his wheezy laugh.

“That has to be a joke right?”

“Yes, that’s what I thought too.”

He grimaced.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.

The Rio del Santissimo was just around the corner so I brought him there and held him while he threw up.

That too brought a sense of déjà vu: our last night together, that kiss we had shared which had changed my life forever.

We sat on the steps that led down to the Rio; I massaged Elio’s back and he whimpered like a sick puppy.

“You think it was Seguso?” he asked, after a while.

“No, I’m pretty sure it was Larry,” I replied.

“What, why he would he do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Nothing makes sense except for the fact that I am certain that the papers are not there.”

“My head hurts,” he moaned. “Where are my parents?”

“I believe I caught a glimpse of them drinking and laughing with someone who may have been Ludovico and two other people.”

“They must be drunk too,” he said, “Should we go back inside and tell them we are going home?”

I had no intention of going back and I knew Elio was as reluctant.

“They’ll understand,” I replied, “They are clever people and they know you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He wrinkled his nose and I kissed it.

“Nothing, let’s get a water taxi before the fireworks start.”

We were lucky and found one outside Palazzo Morosini.

“End of Carnival,” Elio said, as we passed various boats and gondolas with their cargoes of revellers in outlandish costumes.

“Yeah, I can’t believe it’s already over,” I sighed. I shouldn’t have cared: it wasn’t my tradition and I belonged to a different religion, but there was something magic about the Venetian Carnival and it was sad to watch it die.

Our taxi was approaching Palazzo Corner when the first firework exploded: it lit the sky red, blue and gold.

No one was paying attention to us, so I took Elio in my arms and kissed him.        


	42. Interlude

Please skip this and go to the next chapter. Thank you <333


	43. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am overwhelmed by your kind and lovely messages. Secondly, take my advice and stay away from the interweb when you are suffering from a severe bout of depression.  
> Anyways, the story - like the show - must go on, and here's the next chapter, my darlings. I love you all. Really.
> 
> Oliver's POV then Elio's
> 
> Warning for extreme fluffiness, but I reckon that this weekend we need it more than usual ;)

 

It isn’t easy to put into words the sense of desolation that pervaded the city the following morning; the dregs at the bottom of the glass, the dying embers of a fire, the litter clogging the narrow alleys and spilling into the canals: everything tasted foul, shop-soiled, tear-stained.

Elio was still asleep, his open mouth emitting some despondent gurgling sound.

My watch showed that it was early still, but I needed the bathroom.

I thought about the strange evening we’d had, the absurdity of the situation and even wondered whether we’d ever meet Eddy Seguso or if he was destined to remain incognito.

The Perlmans were due to leave early in the afternoon, and we had been invited to lunch at the Lamberts; more endings, I thought, and a sudden panic seized me; I had to sit on the rim of the bathtub and splash my face with cold water.

“Oliver, are you in there?”

“Yes, give me a moment,” I said, but he was already padding in, barefoot and wrapped in my purple dressing gown.

His curls were flattened on one side and he was scratching his nipple like he often did when he was nervous.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Hmm,” I replied. It was all I could manage, while my heart was like a fist stuck in my throat.

I towelled my face dry, while Elio threw me a worried look before going to take a piss. While he did that, I sneaked out and went to the kitchen. I drank a glass of orange juice, hoping that it would help with my dizziness.

I slumped down on a chair and closed my eyes. What was going on, I asked myself. Elio and I were happy, weren’t we? He wouldn’t leave me just because he was spreading his wings and his life was about to change drastically.

Yes, we had been living inside a bubble which was due to burst but reality wouldn’t be a million miles away from the dreamy days that had come to an end.

End, that word again. Maybe the presence of Elio’s parents had acted as a sort of _memento mori_ which said: you have lost him once before, Oliver, you might lose him again. You are a fraud, a nonentity, a dead weight. I clenched my teeth and took a deep breath. When I exhaled, Elio came into the room.

“You are freaking me out a little,” he murmured.

“It’s nothing,” I replied, trying to sound insouciant, “Lack of sugar.”

“Bullshit,” he said, sitting on my lap. He placed his hand on my heart and made a face. “It’s going like crazy; must have been that shitty grappa that made me vomit.”

“You had too much, that’s why you got sick.”

The palm of his hand was on my forehead.

“You haven’t got a fever.”

“I told you I am fine.”

“About the papers, you should have listened to me,” he said, “We should have called the police and let them deal with it. We are not detectives.”

“You are a pianist, but as for me, the jury’s still out.”

His eyes went wide with surprise.

“What the fuck are you going on about,” he said, yanking at my hair, “You can be anything you want to be: you are goddamn genius, Oliver. You wrote a book at twenty-four, when most people are sleeping around and getting wasted. You were teaching at Columbia---but why am I telling you this, you know already---wait have you changed your mind about following me on tour, because I’m not sure I will and I have a job at the Malibran now---”

I shook my head. “It’s all good,” I interjected. “I was only being stupidly sentimental about the end of Carnival and your parents leaving.”

He stared at me and I could see the myriad hypothesis his brilliant mind was formulating at top speed.

“Are you fucking joking,” he exclaimed, pressing me against the back of the chair. “You are not thinking of going back to the States are you? Because let me tell you, mister genius,” he tapped my chest with his index finger, “That this time I wouldn’t let you get on that train. I’d drag you back kicking and screaming, if I had to.”

I laughed but felt close to tears.

“That’ll never happen,” I replied. “The other way round, maybe.”

He leaned down and bit my earlobe, hard.

“Ouch, hey, it hurt,” I complained.

“Yeah?” he grunted, and did it again, then moved on to my neck and started sucking on it like a vampire. The pain soon morphed into pleasure and a few instants later we were devouring each other; deep, slurping kisses that made my heart sing.

“Wanna go back to bed,” he muttered, when we parted. “We have time.”

“Time for what,” I teased.

“Feeding you my cock,” he replied, without missing a beat, “What, you said you were thirsty,” he bit back, mock-innocently.

In our room, he straddled me and ordered me around. “Open your mouth, give me your tongue, suck it, hmm, yes, more, fuck, there, god, oh god, this is so hmm, take it, hmm, all yours, yes, yes, fuck, yes!”

I held him inside until he was soft again and he licked his semen from my chin; he stuck two fingers in my mouth and when they were coated with spit and come, he closed his fist around my dick and pleasured me until I shot all over my stomach.

“Oliver,” he sighed, after he’d cleaned me up, “You got nothing to fear,” he stared into my eyes. “I told you I am a sure thing.”

“Are you,” I whispered and as he nodded, I rubbed his puffy lips and told him that I loved him. He loved me, too.

 

 

I looked at Oliver as he hugged my parents and wondered why he’d been upset earlier. The mystery of Olga’s papers had been entertaining and distracting, and I asked myself - again - whether he was dreading the return to the daily grind.

I’d be going to work, he’d be spending time with Rudy and possibly with Mario, and soon we’d have our own routine, like every other couple. I longed for it with every cell of my body, and I believed it was the same for him.

He smiled at me and my heart did a fluttery thing, like a trapped butterfly.

Maman saw my expression and she tousled my hair.

“I am so proud of you,” she said, in French. “You’ve grown into such a fine man.”

I felt myself blush. “I don’t know about that,” I replied. “But I am where I want to be.”

Dad was asking Oliver about the previous night.

“We saw you leave,” he said, “And we suspected that excellent grappa was to blame. We had some trouble with it too.”

Oliver shot me an interrogative look and I nodded.

“It was that and something else,” he replied, and told them about the masked man in the toilets.

Dad cleaned his glasses, pensively.

“I’d go directly at the root of the problem, if I were you,” he said.

“The police,” I chimed in. “That’s what I have been saying from the start.”

“Not the police, Mrs Ryland.”

“She’ll sue me for libel,” Oliver said.

“It’s not libel if you are only asking a question.”

Maman frowned. “Is this a good idea, my darling?”

“It’s always a good idea if it saves time and provokes a reaction.”

“It depends on the reaction,” she argued.

“A woman like that won’t do anything that might compromise her,” he replied.

Oliver was inclined to agree with him but he’d been waylaid by the cigarette that my mother was smoking. He’d gone cold turkey and he was missing the nicotine. Part of me wanted to give in and let him have one, but it was a bad idea and his health mattered more than indulging a whim.

I had power over him and he had power over me: it was impossible to unwind the ties that bound us together; the skein of desire and devotion.

 

Peter Lambert was discussing history with my dad, Rose and maman were laughing about the poetry festival, while Oliver and I ate in silence and played footsie. I picked up bits of both conversations but it was Oliver who caught what Peter was saying and asked him to repeat it.

“Why, do you know Professor Eastman?” Lambert enquired.

“No, but I have recently heard of him,” Oliver replied.

“He’s in Venice to acquire the original manuscript of Marco Barbaro’s _Genealogie Patrizie_ , among other things.”

“Barbaro as in the original owners of Palazzo Barbaro,” I enquired.

“Yes, I believe Patricia’s name was in homage to the title of that book. The Curtises are passionate about their home and its history.”

“And you say that he’s in Venice,” Oliver went on, “I don’t mean to sound like I don’t believe you, but are you sure of that?”

Maman and Rose had stopped talking and were staring at Oliver. Dad’s eyes were glinting: he was enjoying himself, I could tell.

Peter was unfazed. “Yes, I am sure because I have met him. We sat down at the Bar dell’Accademia and had a glass of perfectly decent champagne.”

His wife gave him a pointed look, which he ignored.

“The manuscript was purchased by a small museum but they are closing down and getting rid of their treasures.”

“And the Curtis family won’t buy it back?” I asked.

“They can’t afford it,” he replied. “The upkeep of their Palazzo and their lifestyle are costly enough. I suppose they could have raised the money, but I imagine that they are quite satisfied with it going to a prestigious place such as Yale.”

“Why shouldn’t he be in Venice?” Rose asked Oliver.

“No reason, maybe I misunderstood what someone told me.”

He was talking about Olga, who allegedly had travelled somewhere to meet the Professor; but if he had been in Venice, why go to all the trouble? I understood Oliver’s surprise.

 

“Promise me you will come and visit us soon,” Maman said, after she’d hugged Oliver. “And this time, mean it, please.”

He blushed and looked at me. “We will, I give you my word. I was just thinking that I miss driving a car.”

“Oh, is that the only reason?” she joked. She hugged him again and this time I joined in, while dad looked on, like a minister blessing a union.

We watched as they got on the train and waved goodbye. My eyes were stinging but I was trying to disguise it from Oliver, who wasn’t fooled for a single second.

“We can see them whenever you like,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Next week-end, if that’s what you want.”

I sniffled. “I’m being stupid,” I replied, “I went so long without them I should be used to it.”

“It’s different and you know it.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” he joked.

“Too wise,” I replied. “I dislike competition.”

“I don’t buy it,” he laughed. “You thrive on competition. May I remind you how catty you were with poor Chiara when she dared to take an interest in me?”

I muttered something about obscene dance moves and he kept laughing at me. I’d get my payback later, anyway.

 

We were dining on the stew that Emilia had left for us while we were out, when the phone rang. I assumed it would be my parents, who by that time would have arrived home.

“ _Pronto, chi parla_?”

“Mrs Ryland here,” the woman announced, “I’m guessing I'm talking to Elio Perlman.”

“I’ll fetch Oliver,” I said, and did so.

“Hello, yes, it’s me,” he replied. “What are you talking about?”

I heard her voice barking at the other end.

“It’s none of your business and I don’t see why you are asking me of all people.”

Oliver’s expression betrayed more surprise than anger.

“No, do not come over here, I have nothing more to say to you. Goodbye,” he said, and put the receiver down.

“What the hell is going on,” he exclaimed.

“I won’t know until you tell me,” I urged him.

“I need a drink,” he said, so we went back to the kitchen and I poured him another glass of Verdicchio.

He knocked it back in one gulp.

“She asked me what I did with the papers, accused me of having stolen them. She was very angry and I don’t believe she was lying.”

“That’s not possible!”

Oliver rubbed his eyes. “And Eastman is in Venice,” he said, “Your dad was right: this has been someone else’s story all along.”


	44. Anticlimax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver meets Eddy Seguso, at last.
> 
> Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked for Elio interacting with cats....

Elio was staring at me, waiting for my verdict with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Maybe she was lying,” he proposed. “Attack is the best form of defence.”

I recalled Jane's frenzied, shrill tones and shook my head.

“She sounded rattled and full of vitriol,” I replied. “Maybe I should call Rudy.”

He crinkled his nose. “He’ll be with Daniel.”

“I thought you liked him better ever since the party.”

“He’s alright, but I haven’t forgotten about his foot fetish.”

“That’s his brother, and I wouldn’t exactly call it a fetish,” I replied. “More like an odd partiality.”

“Ralph is eccentric but Daniel was flirting with you when I first met him.”

I sighed, but was pleased of his jealousy. He gave me a haughty eye roll and turned his back to walk away. “Fine, I’ll go prepare coffee.”

 

Rudy was at home. He listened to what I had to say without interrupting me. He seemed more interested in Professor Eastman than in Jane Ryland’s tirade.

“I heard that he was in Venice. The Head of the Fondazione mentioned him this morning. This is getting serious, Oliver: if we don’t inform the authorities or Olga at the very least, we might get into a quite a lot of trouble. The Italians are notorious law-breakers, but they will go through the motions.”

“I have Seguso’s address, I was planning to confront him tonight.”

He didn’t try to dissuade me. “I’ll come with you, if you like.”

“Perhaps it’s better if I go on my own,” I replied. “He might be more inclined to talk if there are no witnesses: his word against mine.”

“Alright, but please phone me as soon as you are back,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

 

Elio wasn’t as cooperative.

“You are not going there without backup,” he said.

I chuckled as I tucked a rebellious curl behind his ear.

“This isn’t a cop show,” I joked. “I’m only going to visit an artist in his studio. He won’t bite.”

“This time he might drown you in the canal.”

“He was masked when he pushed me into that well,” I replied. “I am willing to bet he won’t try anything funny.”

“I’ll be around the corner,” he insisted. “If you scream, I’ll hear you. And if you are not back within a stated time, I’ll call the Carabinieri.”

“Deal, but only if you wrap up warm,” I replied.

“I’m not the one who got sick twice,” he argued. “I’ll lend you one of my scarves.”

“You already have,” I said, winking, and earned a smack on the bum.

 

It had turned chilly again, at least at night, and after the noise of Carnival, it was eerily quiet. Footsteps echoed in the distance, few and far between; the clangour of a shutter being rolled down caught us by surprise; Elio startled and grasped my elbow.

Calle Larga meant wide alley, but it was clearly a misnomer. It was a narrow passage leading to the Rio della Sensa; on the other bank of the canal was the Casa Tintoretto, the gothic-style building where the painter had lived all his life.

The houses in Calle Larga were of a similar style with the omnipresent ogee windows and ochre facades. Number 83 was flanked on both sides by derelict palazzi that must have been splendid in their heyday.

“I’ll go,” Elio said, but didn’t move.

There was a short flight of steps leading to number 81 and a stray cat was dozing on the top one.

“Go keep him company,” I suggested.

He groaned. “Cats don’t like the company of strangers,” he said, sententiously. “And he may be a she.”

“Only one way to find out,” I replied.

“Quit trying to distract me,” he huffed, “Ring the bell, see if he’s in.”

There were no name tags and only one antiquated brass button, which I pressed firmly, twice.

Nothing happened at first and Elio’s shoulders relaxed.

“I was sure he wouldn’t be here,” he said.

I tried again and this time I was successful.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Elio said, with wide, imploring eyes.

“I’ll see you soon,” I replied.

He squeezed my hand for a long moment then moved away.

 

My imagination had conjured up a decadent interior, a den of vice, but it couldn’t have been farther from reality: creamy marble floors, tasteful furniture and a lack of clutter were the prominent features of Eddy’s home. I should have guessed it, since he was an artist and a talented, if dishonest, one.

No one came to greet me so I made my way through the covered loggia and up the staircase.

“Hello, is anybody there?” I called out as I reached the _piano nobile_.

“In here,” a male voice replied.

The model of Larry’s portrait was wearing sweatpants and a grey Aran sweater. His hair was longer than Elio’s and his eyes were the colour of milk chocolate: he was even more beautiful than his depiction.

“Oliver,” he said, with only the whiff of a foreign accent. “I have been waiting for you. Please make yourself at home,” he indicated the maroon leather couch. “May I offer you a drink? I was thinking of Rémy Martin.”

“You have expensive tastes,” I replied, accepting the crystal tumbler he was handing me.

“It was a present,” he said, with a one-shoulder shrug. “I have generous friends.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He gazed at me, his full lips curved into a smile. Yes, I understood why Patricia Curtis was so besotted and I might have been too, had I not been irrevocably taken.

“I owe you an apology,” he continued, shaking off his flirtatious mask. He must have perceived my lack of interest and adapted his attitude accordingly. I sipped the cognac and waited for him to go on. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Really? Because I thought it was precisely what you meant to do.”

He laughed, loudly and with his eyes too.

“It was only part of the game,” he replied. “You are not from around here, but this sort of things used to be Carnival tradition: hide and seek, treasure hunts---”

“Speaking of which,” I interjected, “Where are the papers and who asked you to steal them?”

He let out a low whistle.

“You don’t mess around,” he said, “How very American of you.”

His eyes shone with amusement.

“Whoever it was must have paid you well, but I can pay you more.”

“Handsome and rich,” he remarked, “That pianist prodigy is a very lucky boy.”

I shot him a look that silenced him.

“I’ve played this charade long enough,” I said, staring him dead in the eye, “Tell me where the papers are or I’ll go to the _Prefettura_ and tell them everything I know.”

He chuckled. “You don’t know anything much at all.”

“They will find out who hired you, eventually, and arrest them.”

Seguso was unperturbed.

“Go ahead,” he said, “Be my guest.”

I realised that he wasn’t in the least scared so I went back to my original proposal.

“I’ll give you money if you tell me where they are.”

He shook his head. “You have me all wrong,” he said. “Just because I like a bit of luxury it doesn’t make me a whore.”

I flinched and he threw me a calculating look.

“Would you like that, maybe?” He observed me some more. “No, you don’t really care for that. Anyway, as I said it’s not about the money; well, not only about it, at least.”

“Is there anything that would convince you to speak out?”

He seemed highly amused.

“The thing is, my dear Oliver, that you are about to find out without my help.”

“You are not making any sense,” I replied, angrily. “I am not gonna just magically stumble upon them.”

Eddy shook his head, like a mother dealing with a less-than-bright child.

“You know even less than I thought,” he declared; then he leaned towards me and patted my shoulder. “You are not going to like it when you do.”

“And that’s your final word?”

“That’s my final word,” he replied, taking the empty tumbler from my hand.

I left him there, stretched out on the couch, eyes shut and a dreamy expression on his handsome Modigliani face.

 

Elio was cradling the stray cat in his arms, whispering as the bemused animal glared at him.

“Is it a he or a she?” I asked.

“You were right,” he replied. “So, was he there, what did he say?”

“I’ll tell you on the way home.”

He placed the cat back where he’d found him and the feline went back to sleep as if nothing had happened in the interim.

“What were you whispering to him?” I enquired.

“Nothing”

“Come on, spill.”

“It was a nursery rhyme maman used to sing and, no, I will not sing it to you.”

“Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,” I joked.

“You’re doing it again.”

The cat mewled softly. “See? He agrees with me,” Elio said, smugly.

“We can’t take him with us.”

I thought of Rose’s antique furniture and shuddered at the thought of it being covered in scratches.

“Yes, I know,” he sighed, and petted the cat’s head.

 

“He can’t have been serious; he must have been bluffing.”

We were in the kitchen drinking camomile tea to warm us up.

“No, I believed him,” I said. “He doesn’t care if we go to the police.”

“What did he look like?”

I described Seguso as objectively as I could.

“He’s not an artist; he’s a parasite,” Elio exploded. “And he was trying to get into your pants.”

“He would have tried with you too; that’s just his modus operandi.”

Elio laughed. “Let’s call his bluff and see how he reacts.”

“I’m gonna call Rudy instead.”

My friend picked up after the first ring: I’d never known him to be so anxious.

I repeated to him what I’d told Elio, but his response was different.

“I have a feeling that we’ve been taken for a ride,” he said, “You most of all.”

I tended to agree with him. Elio had called me a genius, but I felt like a prize idiot.

“We’ll have to talk to Olga tomorrow.”

We agreed to meet in Dorsoduro at noon and ended the call.

 

“Maybe we should move.”

“You like it here,” Elio said. “And Emilia helps with the shopping and the cooking.”

“Spoilt brat,” I joked, and he elbowed me in the ribs.

We were in bed, trying to read but getting distracted by our proximity. It still happened that my leg would brush against his and we’d feel electrified by that slight touch. I wondered when and if it would stop happening; hopefully not for a very long time.

“Is it because of the cat? You don’t like cats anyway,” he said. “You are a dog person.”

We’d never discussed pets, but he was half-right.

“When I was a kid I wanted a dog, but it never happened. Afterwards, it was too complicated. But I don’t dislike cats or I wouldn’t be with you.”

I tickled him and he pretended to push me away.

“We have time,” he said, leaving a trail of kisses along my jaw and down my neck. “Once we return from our sex holiday.” When he bit down on my nipple, I dropped the book on the floor.

 

It was Mario who woke us up at seven the following morning, banging on our door like a crazed drummer.

“What the fuck,” Elio mumbled and disappeared underneath the covers.

“I’ll go,” I groaned, ready to kill the intruder.

Stefani waltzed in brandishing a fresh copy of the Gazzettino. He hadn’t been sleeping, he explained, so he’d walked along the canals to find inspiration. At dawn, he was starving, so he went to have his cappuccino and croissant and there he’d seen the paper.

“Look,” he exclaimed, pointing at the article on the front page.

“ _What price Pound’s precious papers_?” I read, hardly believing my eyes. "Yale’s Professor Finlay Eastman was proposing to pay a fortune for the archive of controversial poet Ezra Pound, the article said, which had increased in value since its disappearance, which seemed to have taken place while Olga Rudge, Pound’s lifetime companion, was away from Venice on a short trip."

“Amazing isn’t it?” Mario said.

I had to sit down because I felt faint.

“Yes, that’s one word for it.”


	45. Meta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery is solved and our boys are almost on their way to their sex holiday!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Oliver's POV

Rudy arrived soon after Mario left.

There hadn’t been enough time to explain the latest developments to Elio: at first he’d been fast asleep and then he’d locked himself in the bathroom. When he’d emerged from it, the bell had started to ring.

“Have you seen the Gazzettino?” Rudy asked, as soon as he came in. Stefani had left his copy on the coffee table and Elio was reading it.

“What does it mean?” he exclaimed; his bewildered gaze searching mine.

“It means that your dad was right,” I sighed. “This story was too implausible to be true.”

Rudy was pacing the room: I had never seen him quite so angry.

“I feel responsible for what happened to you,” he said, “I was the one who asked you to go and see her. You were reluctant and I convinced you to give Olga a chance.”

Elio’s mouth was parted and he was tousling his still-wet curls with one hand.

“Will one of you tell me in plain English what the hell is going on?”

Rudy looked at me and I nodded. “I’ll be in the kitchen drinking coffee,” he said, and left.

“I wish I could smoke a cigarette,” I said.

“Just tell me,” Elio huffed.

“I’m not in possession of all the information, but in short: Olga invented the entire charade in order to get a better price for those wretched papers.”

“You mean they haven’t been stolen?”

He slumped down on the couch and I sat next to him and took his hands in mine.

“They have been taken from storage and placed elsewhere. My guess is that they really are in that artist’s house, on the Giudecca island. Remember that Seguso is friends with the owner of the Secret Garden: Rudy told us as much.”

“Eddy and Olga are on the same side?”

I could have slapped myself; it was all so obvious in hindsight: Eddy who attracted older ladies and got paid for his ‘services’, that improbable abduction that Olga had been a victim of, the fact that Seguso knew far in advance what costume Elio would have been wearing at Daniel’s party and had the time to find a replica; so many clues, which I had failed to piece together.

“Yes, I believe they are.”

Elio’s eyes darkened. “She nearly had you killed, and I thought she was our friend.” He shook his head, his expression cycling between incredulity, sorrow and finally wrath. “I can’t believe she did that to us. I want to look her in the eye and ask her.”

He stood up and strode out of the room. I followed him into our bedroom, where he was picking clothes out of the armoire, throwing them on the bed where they landed in a heap.

“Why are you staring at me?” he said. “Get dressed: we are going to the Hidden Nest.”

 

We parted ways with Rudy: he went to Palazzo Barbaro to see Daniel while we took the vaporetto to Dorsoduro.

Elio was still furious, while I felt unbidden admiration for what that very old woman – nearly a hundred – had managed to pull off.

I had gone with Elio, but I didn’t suppose she’d be at home so I was surprised when the door was open by Olga herself. She was wearing an oriental-style blue silk dress and she beamed at us.

“Look, Professor, my boys are here,” she said to the man who was standing behind her. Tall, grey-haired and stooping, he was every inch the college tutor, more Oxford than Yale; he wore a three-piece suit, a bow tie, and gold-rimmed glasses.

She introduced us to Finlay Eastman, and we shook hands and said “how do you do”: it was like being catapulted inside a period English comedy.

Elio – who had been ready to explode – was stunned into near silence. I was curious and eager to see what she’d do and say.

“I was telling the Professor,” she started, and he interrupted her, asking to be addressed as Finlay. “Yes, so, I was telling Finlay that you had an idea where the papers might be.”

“We should let the police do their job,” Eastman remarked, but it was clear that he was going to let her decide.

“I agree with you,” said Elio, after he snapped out of his reverie. “The thieves have to pay for what they did.” He glared at Olga but she kept smiling.

“Oliver, what do you think?” she asked.

I could have betrayed her: that was my moment. I couldn’t do it.

“We think they may be on the Giudecca,” I replied. I related the incident of the stolen gondola. “It may be the same gang.”

“Doesn’t Hundertwasser live there?” asked the Professor.

“Yes, but he’s away, so his place has been empty for a while,” replied Olga.

“I am afraid that if we alert the police, the thieves may just take the papers some place where we won't be able to find them.”

Elio snorted and disguised it with a cough.

“They haven’t asked for money,” Olga went on. “Maybe it’s only a prank, but it could be that they are passionate about Ezra’s work.”

“The Aspern Papers,” Eastman remarked. “Anyway, I want them found and Yale is prepared to pay for their recovery.”

Olga touched the man’s arm and seemed overcome with emotion. “It’s so very kind of you,” she murmured.

“Well, I’m very glad to have met you,” the Professor said, as he rose to take his leave. “I have a busy day ahead, but I will be in touch later this afternoon. I’ll see myself out.”

 

We waited for the door to slam shut then Elio was the first to speak.

“Why did you do it?” he shouted. “If you wanted money, you could have told us, we would have helped!”

She tilted her head to the side, in that birdlike manner she had that made her look like a very old child. She was silent for a while, her eyes unblinking.

“You have no idea what it is to be as old as I am,” she said, softly. “All your friends, those who knew you when you were young, have died. Death is around the corner: not a distant possibility, but a present threat.”

“But you have friends, people who love you, your daughter---” I said.

“Everybody treats me like I am a negligible entity,” she argued, with sudden animosity, “That annoying Jane Ryland most of all! She insisted I had my portrait taken, but she had to choose the painter and the setting: I put my foot down and hired Larry instead. But she wasn’t done: she was keen on Ezra’s archive and would have found a way to get her claws on it. She was wearing me down, but then you two arrived.”

I recalled our first encounter, when she’d compared me to the protagonist of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. She’d seemed so scatterbrained and fragile: how easily one can be deceived.

“You used us to teach her a lesson,” said Elio.

She ruffled his hair and he let her: progress, I supposed.

“To start with, yes,” she replied, “But when I got to know you, I decided that you needed a little nudge in the right direction.”

“What direction?” I asked.

She tutted, “Do not play dumb, my dear, it doesn’t suit you. You were as tense as too-tightly strung violins when you first came to see me. I said to myself: give them adventure and they will forget their silly troubles.”

“Our troubles weren’t silly,” Elio scoffed.

She cackled. “I bet you can’t even recall what you were fussing about.”

He opened his mouth to reply and shut it without uttering a word.

“And what about the incident at the party,” I enquired. “Was that part of the plan too?”

She looked at me with affection. “Eddy went too far, but he was always too fond of practical jokes.”

“Oliver could have died,” Elio said, angrily. “It was a terrible thing that you did.”

“He was only supposed to scare him off, but he has a naughty side.”

“I’ll have him arrested,” he replied. “Let’s see how he enjoys being behind bars.”

“He knew that prison was always a possibility,” Olga said, “He’s leaving the country and needed some money.”

“I offered him money last night but he didn’t take it,” I said.

She was genuinely taken aback.

“You went to see him? He was right then,” she murmured. “He was sure you’d find him and try to get the truth out of him.”

“Why didn’t he accept the offer?” asked Elio.

Olga smiled at him.

“He’s not unlike me, that boy. Fair play, but with a smidgen of a roguish twist.”

“You sent us on a wild goose chase for a little money and a lot of fun,” I concluded.

“We all need a pinch of mystery, from time to time,” she said. “It keeps the mind alert, Ezra used to say.”

A wave of misery seemed to pass over her features, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Those papers are all that’s left of his work and he dearly loved publicity,” she said, gruffly. “His name is front page news again: I did that for him.”

 

A journalist was due to interview Olga so we left before he arrived. Larry, who had been upstairs packing up his suitcase, came with us.

“What a mess,” he said, as we waited for the boat at the Salute quay. “Dado – I mean Eddy – wants us to go to London together.”

“When, now?” asked Elio.

“Yes, well, as soon possible. He doesn’t want me to get involved in this business,” he smiled, fondly. “He’s such a caring person.”

Elio and I exchanged bemused looks.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” I said, “Did you come to the Poetry Festival?”

Larry shook his head. “No, I wanted to but then I changed my mind.”

“You stayed at Eddy’s place,” Elio suggested.

“No, he was away on business,” the painter replied.

Another mystery solved, I thought. I could have sworn the masked man had been Larry but evidently his boyfriend’s many talents included a gift for imitation.

 

“It was Seguso who followed you, at the festival,” Elio remarked, once we were back home. “He’s obsessed with toilets; probably a voyeur.”

He grimaced.

“Quit clutching your pearls, darling,” I replied, “It’s not as if you don’t enjoy a bit of that too.”

His nostrils flared. “I don’t, unless it’s with you.”

“Same here,” I said, and kissed the tip of his nose.

“The first time it happened, back in 1983, you didn’t even know I was awake,” he said, smugly.

“I left the door open on purpose, just in case.”

“Dirty and kinky,” he exclaimed.

“The way you like it.”

He threw his arms around my neck and kissed me on the lips.

“I’m famished,” he said.

I winked and he giggled. “Food, I mean,” he explained, “It’s been a very strange morning.”

“Let’s see if Emilia left us something to eat.”

There were piping-hot lasagne in the oven and a bowl of chicken salad in the fridge.

“I was so angry with Olga,” Elio said, as we devoured the lasagne. “But I can’t stay mad at her. She gave me that Vivaldi score.”

“I can’t deny that she had a point,” I replied. “About us, I mean. We were running round in circles and wasting time when we could have been together.”

He nodded, bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

“It seems like a lifetime ago,” he murmured. “I can’t imagine not sleeping next to you.”

“You don’t have to imagine it,” I said, “Because it’s not going to happen.”

His foot caressed mine then slid underneath.

“Maybe not only food,” he whispered, licking his lips in a very suggestive way.

I rolled my eyes in mock-exasperation.

“The trouble with dating a younger man,” I sighed.

“We are not dating,” he muttered. “You are mine.”

 


	46. Ordinary Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised you a sex holiday but I had to tie up all the loose ends first. Next, as promised, the sex holiday. An entire chapter of smut, fluff and love.
> 
> Oliver's POV

A summery spring had sprung, suddenly, as if often does in this part of the world.

It was mild and pleasant; the only downside was the stench of sewage that plagued the _calli_ and the canals.

The recovery of the stolen papers was staged in the flamboyant manner which was so dear to Olga: they were found in the warehouse of the owner of the famous Harry’s Bar by the man himself, Giuseppe Cipriani. Carabinieri and photographers had previously raided the mansion and grounds of the mysterious Hundertwasser and found nothing. Rose had joined the search party - despite her husband’s protestations - and she had spent a glorious afternoon admiring the garden that she’d day-dreamed about for years.

 

Elio and I decided to stay out of it and observed the proceedings with incredulity and amusement.

The events unfolded as follows: Cipriani had rented a warehouse on the Giudecca for the storage of his stock and of his objects d’arts, since he was a keen collector.

He had been away to South America on a business trip and during his absence the warehouse had been locked and left otherwise unattended.

As soon as he’d returned home, he’d gone to check whether everything was alright and it had seemed so, at first. When he’d opened the champagne crates, he’d found them filled with piles and piles of manuscripts and letters.

Having been absent from Venice, he wasn’t aware of the Pound affair and when he’d alerted the authorities about his discovery, he’d been astounded when a crowd of people had descended on his premises, armed with cameras and taping devices.

The lock hadn’t been forced and Cipriani swore that his two keys had always been in his possession: he was above suspicion and Olga had no intention of pressing charges, obviously. The mystery was never to be solved, at least officially.

Eddy - who by then was already in London with Larry - had done some refurbishment work for Cipriani and had access to his keys, including the warehouse one.

Professor Eastman had duly purchased the entire archive on behalf of Yale and the sale was celebrated at Harry’s Bar: Olga’s circuitous way of compensating the poor Cipriani for the distress she’d caused him.

She moved to Salzburg to stay with her daughter but returned a week later.

We went to see her and found her rejuvenated.

“Why didn’t you stay there?” I asked her.

She made a face. “The place’s too neat and clean, like being in a morgue.”

“Does it matter?”

“I prefer a bit of murkiness,” she replied, smiling. “It makes what’s left of my life more interesting.” She looked at Elio, touched his hand. “And I wished to play with you again, before you become too famous for little old me.”

Elio blushed and looked down at his feet. “I’ll never be--- like that.”

She observed him closely, in silence. “No, you probably won’t change too much,” she concluded. “Change is a good thing as long as it’s on your own terms. Never forget that.”

They played until she got tired and sent us away.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said.

Two days late we found out that she’d left for London.

 

 

Rudy and Daniel had announced that they were going away together: Curtis was eager to leave Venice and he’d convinced Rudy that he needed a break from interfering in other people’s business. They left at the end of April for Morocco, where they were going to follow in the footsteps of Genet and Saint Laurent.

“We could go there for our sex holiday,” I suggested.

“You want us to be tourists,” he replied. His expression strived for indifference but I knew that he was sulking; I pretended not to notice.

“Not tourists, travellers; like Port and Kit in The Sheltering Sky.”

He hummed and rubbed his nipple; it was evening and we were unwinding on the couch, drinking wine and listening to Leonard Cohen.

“With a happier ending,” I added.

“I’ll have to pack my sun block,” he said, “And the insect repellent.”

I suppressed a smile. “I was thinking of booking one of those adventure packages.”

He stared daggers at me. “I was hoping I’d ride you not a camel,” he huffed.

I burst into laughter and he hit me on the chest, which made me laugh even more.

“You are so easy,” I cried. “You fall for it every single time.”

“Asshole,” he shouted back, but he was giggling. I tickled him and we spent a few delightful minutes mock-wrestling, nearly spilling the wine on Rose’s precious Bukhara rug.

When we recovered our breath, he asked me again.

“So, where are you taking me?”

“Not gonna tell you,” I replied. “I want it to be a surprise.”

“That means that you’ve already made arrangements.”

“You’ll make a fine detective one day,” I joked.

He pulled my hair and bit the side of my neck.

“Better than you,” he tutted, “Fooled by an elderly lady.”

I pinched the tiny roll of fat under his navel.

“She was good,” I conceded. “But I blame you, for distracting me with your wiles.”

“What wiles?” He straddled my lap and raked his fingers through my hair. That was a dirty trick, since it always reminded me of our first night together; I had trouble breathing but I kept it together, enough to reply. “Curls, neck, lips, all of you,” my voice broke and he attacked my mouth, shoving his tongue inside it, licking and teasing until I responded in kind. I was hard and I could feel his length poking me in the stomach. “Fuck Morocco, I’m gonna ride you here,” he croaked.

My dick gave a twitch of assent.

 

We didn’t even bother to get naked: I pulled my pants down mid-thigh and he kept his top on; it was my pyjama jacket, unbuttoned and gaping, its sides lightly grazing his nipples at every thrust. I squeezed his flesh like those ripe peaches we’d used to eat, wanting his juices, all of them, all over me.

 

“Your turn next time,” he hissed, as I dipped my middle finger inside his hole to plug it with my semen. “Three times in a row: I’m a bit sore.”

I dotted his face with kisses. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have---”

“I wanted to,” he replied, nuzzling my throat. He looked me in the eye and gave me one of his impish smiles. “I really love your cock.”

“It’s very much reciprocated,” I smiled back. “I’d fuck you all the damn time, if I could.”

“That’s what sex holidays are for,” he said, “Not for running around in the desert.”

I pulled him closer and held him tight to my chest. “Yes, sir,” I said, and he purred like a feline.

                        

We ran into Ludovico one fine evening, while we were in Rialto. He was chatting with two blonde women but he dropped them as soon as he spotted us.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten you,” he said, in lieu of a greeting. “I was fleeing from the long arm of the law; meddlesome philistines: they don’t understand that art has to be divorced from petty morals or it’ll grow stale, like yesterday’s bread.”

His grey locks were dishevelled and his shirt was smeared with paint and chalk.

“What have you done?” I enquired.

He shrugged, waved his hands in a gesture of dismissal. “I took one of my sculptures inside St Mark’s. They called it blasphemy, but wasn’t Jesus naked on that cross?”

“Possibly,” said Elio, who was listening raptly.

“Too right he was,” De Luigi said. “And he wouldn’t have objected to a pair of well-formed buttocks; he’d have had something to say about all those furs and jewels: that much I’m sure of.”

“Those furs and jewels pay for your artworks,” I argued.

He glared at me then laughed loudly, throwing his head back.

“You’re calling me a hypocrite and I can’t deny it,” he said, “All the same, a few feathers were ruffled so I cleared off. Come to my studio on Sunday afternoon any time after lunch.”

He walked away without waiting for an answer.

 

On Sunday morning, Elio woke up early and kicked my feet until I opened one eye and whined.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I complained.

“I’m worried about today,” he replied. “I’m not sure we should do it. He’ll have to touch your ass. I have seen the way they do it, with the gloop and plaster strips. To avoid air bubbles, they have to push the mixture into every cavity.”

“Maybe we can ask him to show us how it’s done and we could do it to each other.”

He burrowed into my side and started caressing my chest.

“That’s risky,” he murmured. “Massaging stuff all over your ass is gonna make me hard.”

“You get hard when I pull up my socks,” I chuckled.

“It’s not funny,” he pouted. “It’s a condition.”

“You are a condition.”

We pretended to argue for a while, but it was happy sparring: there wasn’t a single cloud in our sky.

 

Ludovico greeted our suggestion with enthusiasm.

“I used to have an apprentice,” he explained. “I was a great disappointment to him; he said I wasn’t teaching him properly. But that’s art for you: solitary, uneven, rarely a team effort.”

He showed us how to mix the alginate and how to cut the plaster strips.

We had tossed a coin and I’d lost, so I was the first to undress and kneel on the battered sofa with my naked backside exposed. I used my underpants to cover up my genitals but it wasn’t a very successful attempt.

Elio had hoped that Ludovico would look away, but the sculptor was unaware of my boyfriend’s distress.

“You have a very attractive rump,” De Luigi said, “You’ll be a great hit with the public.” I saw Elio wince, but he kept his mouth shut.

Between the position and the feel of Elio’s hands smearing wet creamy stuff onto my private parts, it was quite a challenge to stay unaroused. Yet it was nothing compared to the trouble I had when it was my turn to put my hands on Elio’s bum.

This time Ludovico was distracted, as he was already working on my cast

“Fuck,” Elio whispered when the first dollop of gloop trickled into his crevice.

“I know, sorry,” I whispered back, feeling as though my balls were going to explode.

Somehow, we made it to the end, and De Luigi was satisfied with the result.

We were in bathroom when we heard voices in the studio: it was Mario with his blonde friend Vanna. She was wearing a paisley pantsuit which would have been more suited to someone less curvaceous.

“I wanted to catch you in the act,” she said, ogling my backside. “Looks like I’m too late.”

Elio cleared his throat but she was blissfully unaware. Mario had brought a bottle of Spumante and a tray of pastries.

“It is Sunday, after all,” he said. “We may not go to church, but we can still get our little reward for having been good.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been particularly good,” Ludovico replied. “What about you boys?”

Elio smiled and I shook my head. “Can’t say for certain,” I answered. “It depends on where you draw your line.”

Mario guffawed. “I have no line at all,” he said, “I say we eat, drink and have a good time.”

And so we did.

 

 

 

 


	47. Sicily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of the sex holiday... more to come (pun intended)
> 
> Elio's POV

I opened the window and inhaled the strong scent of jasmine. It was late afternoon at the end of June and Oliver wasn’t with me.

He had decided to go back to the States for a couple of weeks, to liquidate some assets and inform his family about his plans for the future.

I had not been happy about it, to use a euphemism.

“Why now, why just before our holiday?” I had protested.

Naturally, his answer made sense, but that hadn't deterred me from staying upset.

“I’ll start working with Rudy after the summer and we’ve promised your parents we’ll spend time with them at the villa.”

“I thought we’d be travelling together,” I’d whined. “I hate flying and I was counting on you to make it better.”

He’d sighed. “I could return via Milan but I thought---”

“What-- that I’d love having even more time on my own?” I’d grouched.

“No,” he’d smiled and taken me in his arms, “That you’d have enjoyed a bit of role-playing.”

“Odysseus and Penelope,” I’d made a face, “No, thanks very much. I don’t care for weaving and I’m not patient.”

Oliver had laughed and kissed the tip of my nose.

“Imagine how good it will be after two weeks without it.”

I’d snorted. “If by it you mean the sex, I won’t go fifteen days without jacking off.”

“Prosaic boy,” he’d mocked. “I’m here talking about romance and there you are, always in the gutter.”

Suddenly, I’d felt a throb of real hurt. “Maybe you’ll meet someone less vulgar, while you are in New York.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “I’m going there for business and to see my family. Trust me, I’d rather walk on broken glass but it has to be done. They won’t like it but they’ll have to lump it.”

“I could come with you,” I’d said, but I knew it wasn’t feasible: I was busy with work and I couldn’t take time off until our holiday.

Oliver had brushed his lips against mine and, “Next time,” he’d said.

 

He had asked me not to accompany him to the airport.

“It would remind me of Clusone,” he’d said, and I’d agreed.

The morning of his departure, he’d left early without waking me. He’d left a note on the kitchen table: _I’m missing you already. I love you_  

It was signed Elio. I smiled through the tears.

 

I had been surprised when he’d told me that we were going to Sicily.

He’d had this small, secretive smile, which I always made me melt even though I pretended to be indifferent.

“Before I came to you, that summer,” he’d explained. “I went to Sicily to see the Valley of the Temples.”

“I’ve never been there but Dad says it’s gorgeous.”

“Yes,” he’d replied, his expression dreamy, faraway. “It stripped me bare, in a way, so that when I met you, my defences were down. Had I come straight from New York, things might have been different.”

“What you are saying is that you want to go there on a sort of pilgrimage.”

“In a matter of speaking,” he’d grinned. “If fucking someone’s brains out can be considered a religious experience.”

I’d cupped his crotch, “Hmm, yes, positively divine.”

                   

There was no phone in the villa, so the last time I’d heard from Oliver was before I’d left Venice.

“I’ll be there around eight or nine in the evening,” he’d said. “Can’t wait to touch you,” he’d added, in a hot whisper.

“Yes, so much, everywhere,” I’d replied.

 _Please come back to me_ , were the words I had not said.

 

Time was slow as trickle and I jumped at every slight sound. There weren’t many, because the villa was set in the midst of an olive grove and surrounded by vineyards. There was no air conditioning, but the walls were so thick that the heat barely seeped through. It was sparely furnished, but with colourful throws, cushions and rugs in every room. The bed was enormous, and I suspected it was that feature which had clinched the deal for Oliver.

It was a sprawling ex-farmhouse, u-shaped and with no upper floors. The French window in the bedroom opened onto the lawn which had been freshly mowed courtesy of the rental agency. The cicadas were drunk with heat and their vociferous chant was like a battle song. The crickets would soon replace them and by then Oliver would be back where he belonged.

I fetched a bottle of beer from the fridge and went to sit outside. Two weeks had seemed like an eternity and no amount of self-pleasuring could substitute Oliver’s presence, his smell, his skin, his tenderness.

I was half-way through my Peroni, when I heard a car approaching. The gravel path was at the front of the house so I went back inside and ran towards the front door.

 

We stared at each other, unable to move, as the taxi drove away.

My heart was thumping against my ribs.

His hair was longer and there was a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. The plain white t-shirt he was wearing was stretched across his chest and his biceps were more defined. He must have gone to the gym, I thought. He smiled and I smiled back.

“Elio,” he called, and I was running to him, flying up to his arms. He caught me, lifted me up and spun me around.

“I missed you like crazy,” he said, as I raked my fingers through his hair. He smelled of coffee, cologne and sweat, and I wanted to lick him from head to toe.

“You can’t leave me again,” I replied, “Especially not looking like this.”

“Like what,” he teased.

I stroked his upper arms, his shoulders, “Like a damn Greek god,” I husked.

“A way to blow off steam,” he replied.

He put me down and took one step back to look at me.

“Summer suits you,” he said, husky voice and darkening eyes. “Can’t wait to see what’s under those skimpy shorts.”

“Can’t wait to see your red trunks again,” I smirked.

Oliver laughed. “Maybe I’ve changed style.”

“Less slutty?”

He smacked my ass. “Don’t be cheeky.”

I glared at him. “You were showing off and you know it: cock and balls on full display to drive us all crazy.”

His eyes darkened even more.

“And what about you,” he husked, “And those low-slung swim suits? My blood pressure shot up every time you were near me.”

I slid my hand under his t-shirt and placed it above his heart: it was beating as fast as mine.

“You drive me even crazier, just so you know,” I whispered.

Oliver held my face in his hands, bent down and took my lips in a devouring kiss.

When we parted for breath, “Take me to bed,” he said, and my legs gave out.

 

 

“I have no idea what happened,” I said to Oliver, as he carried me inside.

“You didn’t eat, I bet,” he replied.

I argued that no, that wasn’t true: I’d had a tuna salad and a large slice of watermelon. It was the emotion, I said, of seeing him again, of having him come back to me.

He laid me down on the bed, carefully, removed my top and shorts, and stretched out alongside me.

“Why wouldn’t I come back?” he asked.

I stared at the ceiling, noticed a tiny crack in the shape of a comma.

“No reason,” I replied, “But last time you left for New York you got engaged and I---”

“A mistake I’ll never make again,” he said, “Don’t you trust me?”

We gazed into each other’s eyes; his breath tickled my skin.

“It’s not that.” I stole a glance at his lips, at the scruff on his chin. “The image of you on that train is like a permanent tattoo.”

His hand came up to my neck and wrapped around it.

“There are ways of removing them, you know?”

I nodded slowly, as his thumb circled my Adam’s apple. At each pass, my dick plumped up, eventually pushing out of the slit in my underpants. Oliver was still clothed, except for his shoes and socks: I wanted to undress him, wanted him naked, but I was hypnotized by the grasp of his fingers on my throat. I sensed that we’d started a dance of sorts and that I should let him lead the way.

“I should take a shower,” he said, scratching his nape. “I stink of airport.”

“No, please, don’t.”

“Why not,” he asked, exploring the underside on my jaw.

My voice was rough when I replied. “I want to taste---”

“Taste what, hmm?”

I licked my lips and closed my eyes; I heard him growl and then his hand was gone and there was a flurry of movement, the rustle of fabric. When I looked at him again, he was naked. He was exuding warmth and the pelt on his chest was matted with sweat; I bit down on my tongue to repress a moan, but my leaking cock was giving me away.

He raised his arms above his head and grabbed the wrought-iron headboard.

“Take what you need,” he husked.

I hesitated for a tense few seconds before throwing myself on top of him. I attacked his neck, sucking bruises into it, while he arched his back like a martyr on the rack.

“You like that, yes?”

He moaned loudly, louder than ever before; I realised that for the first time we didn’t have to worry about being overheard.

“Fucking beautiful,” I said, and buried my face into his armpit. He squirmed at first, but when I started licking it with the broad of my tongue he cried out my name and begged me never to stop. I’d have gone on forever, but for the heaviness in my balls. His dick was angry-red and wetter than mine.

Oliver mistook my indecision. “You don’t have to---” he rasped, but an instant later he was shouting, “Christ, yes, fuck, Elio, yes,” as I swallowed his cock down my throat. I gagged and dribbled all over his crotch; he legs opened wider and I had to pin his wrists to keep him from bucking. I sucked him roughly, almost meanly, as though I was punishing him, but his hands stayed on the headboard and never strayed.

“Gonna fuck you,” I croaked, when I couldn’t take it any longer. I reached out for the bottle of lube that I’d placed on the bedside table and coated my fingers and my sex with it. Oliver looked at me with greedy, near-feral eyes. His lips were blood-red and his hair was mussed and dark with perspiration.

“No fingers,” he hissed. “Can’t wait.”

I was about to argue with him but the expression on his face stopped me in my tracks: he meant what he’d said, and I wasn’t going to deny him.

“Ask me nicely,” I said, teasing his rim with my cock-head.

I expected profanities, so that when I heard his sweet, “Please, I need you so badly,” I lost it. I slid inside in one thrust and Oliver’s body clamped down on me like a vice. I didn’t have a choice: I rammed in and out of him, folded him in two, kissed him sloppily, open-mouthed; licked his neck, his ear, the groove of his collarbone. I didn’t quite know how I made him come, whether it was the friction of flesh on flesh or the insistent hits on his prostate, but his release spattered his belly and mine, gluing us together. I fucked into him once, twice more and then I was coming too, with the untold bliss of filling his insides with my spunk.

 

We fell asleep soon after, entwined despite the gunk and grime on our bodies.

I woke up in the middle of the night and Oliver was lying on his stomach, snoring softly. I kissed him on the cheek and got up to take a piss. In the bathroom, there was evidence that he’d been there: a discarded towel, his bag of toiletries, his toothbrush next to mine; those silly things made my heart sing. I did what I had to do then went to the kitchen for a drink of water. My hand was on the fridge handle when I heard his footsteps behind me. The lights were off and the only illumination was provided by the moonlight; Oliver wrapped his arms around me from behind and nuzzled my ear. “Come back to bed,” he murmured.


	48. Find Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so we have reached the end and we leave the boys to their wonderful life together.  
> I wish to thank you all for having stuck with me through this mad roller-coaster.
> 
> Like I have said in the comments, I am already thinking about my next story, which will be set during WWII, between London and France.
> 
> I will reply to all your comments as soon as I have a moment!! I love you all!!!
> 
> This chapter is from Oliver's PoV

 

I had been happy in Venice and – in some measure – back in the summer of 1983, but never as blissfully as I was in Sicily with Elio.

The villa was on the Tyrrhenian coast, not far from Palermo; we had no immediate neighbours and we didn’t have a car; we biked to the nearest village to buy groceries and to have the occasional drink when we felt more sociable.

Elio had brought his guitar and at night, after a dinner of grilled fish, salad and fruit, he would teach me how to play his favourite pieces. He was a patient teacher and I loved the soft touch of his fingers on mine.

We rode our bikes late in the evening or early in the morning, when the heat wasn’t as ferocious; Elio was a show-off, until something happened that put paid to his daredevilry.

We were on the winding road down to the sea and he’d taken his hands off the handlebars.

“See, I can do it and you can’t,” he boasted.

I shouted at him, “Stop it, it’s dangerous,” but he stuck his tongue out and cycled even faster.

Suddenly, the bike swerved to the right and he couldn’t control it. Luckily, he only ended up in a ditch, but he bruised his forearms – trying to break his fall – and acquired a gash on his left thigh which he feared would leave a scar.

“As if I needed more of these,” he grumbled, while I disinfected it with Citrosil.

“What?”  He frowned when he saw my smile.

“If Anchise was here, he’d apply one of his poultices.”

He snorted. “It was an excuse to touch you, I bet.”

“Well, at least he was helpful,” I replied, “You couldn’t have cared less.”

Elio made a high-pitched noise and knotted his fingers in my hair.

“Liar,” he squeaked, “I worshipped that scrape and you know it.”

I slid down to the floor and nuzzled his inner thigh.

“Hmm, smells good,” I whispered.

He yanked at my hair, hard enough to make my eyes water.

“How good?” he asked, in a gravelly whisper.

The hard line of his prick showed through his flimsy shorts; I licked the wet patch that had already formed; it tasted brackish, musky.

“Tease,” he murmured, but I was already pushing the fabric aside to get his dick out. I had blown him that morning, but his balls were heavy again, like he couldn’t get enough of it, of me.

I looked up at him; he was flushed, wide-eyed and he was chewing his lower lip.

“Ride me,” he croaked.

“Your leg’s hurt.”

“Yeah,” he replied, as he wrapped his hand around my neck. “Make it better.”

He had this wild, near-cruel expression on his face which I recognised as a command that shouldn’t be disobeyed.

I stood up and peeled off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor; he kicked off his shorts and gripped his cock, wanking it slowly.

“Lube,” I said, my gaze pinned to his crotch. 

“Don’t need it,” he replied, silkily. He’d fucked me open: that’s what he meant.

I straddled him, and felt him flinch when I brushed against his wound.

“We could---” I started, but he silenced me with a shrill, “I don’t care.”

The head of his dick, sopping wet and swollen was nudging my rim, so I rolled my hips in a practised motion that guided it right where I wanted it.

The first intrusion always hurt, but after that it was only hunger and heat; my insides clenching around him, skin prickling with desire, hands roaming each other’s flesh; my nipples beading into sensitive points that Elio loved to torment.

“You’re so, so,” he gritted out, lost for words, as I bounced on his dick, “perfect.”

I exhaled a throaty laugh, leaned in for a biting kiss which evolved into a deep, filthy flailing of tongues.

“Sweet boy,” I murmured, smiling when he scrunched his nose and when he smacked my ass. He did it again, harder.

“Not a boy,” he growled, and snapped his hips just as I sank into him.

“Yes, god, yes,” I shouted.

“Yes, what, come on, hmm, tell me.”

He kept fucking into me, while I held on to the back of the couch. Sweat was pouring down my back and my torso, and Elio licked at my throat to drink some of it, humming with delight.

“Again, more, yes,” I babbled, and felt the tell-tale ache in the pit of my belly.

“Show me,” he urged, looking down to watch as I stroked myself to orgasm.

“Oh fuck,” I moaned, as the spurts hit Elio’s milky skin.

He gave a violent jerk and then another.

“Love,” was all he said as his spunk flooded my insides.

 

The first time we went night swimming, he was sulking for something I’d said at dinner. He pretended to be okay, cracked jokes and climbed on my back, but he couldn’t fool me.

I had told him about a party I’d been to, in New York. An ex-colleague had insisted that I should join them so that they could say goodbye properly, that’s how he'd put it. There had been drinks - too many drinks - and I’d told them about Elio.  It was then that Connor - blue eyes, black hair, of Irish descent – had made a pass at me; not even a bona-fide pass, but his fingers had ghosted the small of my back and his mouth had been too close to my ear while he’d recounted anecdote after anecdote of his student years.

“It was all so ridiculous,” I’d said, pouring myself and Elio some more wine.

“I’m not laughing,” he’d replied.

“Oh come on,” I’d insisted. “Seduction for dummies: like I’d have fallen for that, even if I’d been single.”

“All right, all right,” he’d conceded, knocking back his drink in one gulp.

 

I caressed Elio’s wet face and stroked his cheekbones.

“You don’t really believe that I’d look at another man,” I said.

The moon was so luminous I could almost see the flecks of hazel in his eyes.

He shook his head, slowly.

“So what is it?”

He was silent for a while, pondering.

“There this other part of you that I don’t know anything about,” he replied. “You have met my parents, you have stayed in my house, but I haven’t seen the places where you have spent so much of your life.”

“You will,” I said, “It’s not like I didn’t want you to come with me, but---”

“I’d have been in the way.”

“No, that’s not,” I kissed his lips, his chin, the hinge of his jaw. “It was not unlike a wake. Not exactly tragic, but not much fun either.”

“But I want to be there for the bad bits too,” he insisted, “Like they say, for better and for worse.”

My heart jolted and he must have felt it because he placed his hand above it.

“Unless you think that this, what we have, is not like a marriage.”

We’d not defined the terms of what we had, save for the fact that we wanted it to last.

“I want it to be,” I said, “If you do.”

“And if I don’t?” he asked, with a sly smile.

“I’ll abduct you, like the Ganymede of Palazzo Grimani,” I replied. “After all, you look like him.”

“Would you do that?”

“If that was the only way to keep you, yes, I would.”

He chuckled.

“Is it bad that I rather like the idea of you behaving like a caveman?”

“Nothing’s bad if we both enjoy it,” I replied, dotting his wet cheeks with kisses.

“No more hiding,” he whispered. “Not on your own, I mean.”

I flashed him a grin. “Well, it depends,” I said, and “Catch me if you can,” I shouted, and threw myself into the shimmery sea.

His laughter followed me underwater, like a siren call.

 

We lived two different lives: the day was mostly devoted to sunbathing, fishing, biking or reading; at night, our pursuits became more sensual; they always ended up in lovemaking, often in the open air.

One night, towards the end of our stay, I woke up and Elio wasn’t next to me.

I was lying atop a pile of large cushions: we’d smoked pot and talked; we’ve made out and cuddled, but not much else, which had left me half-hard.

I called his name, but the house was empty; I decided to go look for him, and as I put on my shoes, I saw the note he’d left on the bed.

“ _Find me_ ,” it said.

When I stepped out, I was hit by the vividness of the light: there was a full moon and the silhouettes of the olive trees stood out as though they’d been etched.

I knew Elio would be there, like a sprite communing with nature. It was almost like a stage, and every step I took brought me closer to the centre of the action.

There were no real paths, but I knew the place well enough to avoid the stinging nettles and the cardoons. I savoured the minty clean air of night. There was a soft breeze, as warm as a lover’s breath. I stopped and listened: among the noises of the night, I’d heard a cracking of twigs.

“Elio,” I called, in a loud whisper. I didn’t wish to break the spell.

No answer.

I walked further away from the patches of tall grass, feeling the gentle swish of it against my bare legs. In the near distance, between two gnarled trunks, something was sparkling.

I sprinted towards the source of that glow, but it was gone before I could reach it.

“Damn,” I murmured, and stood still, waiting.

“Giving up already?” said Elio’s amused voice, coming from behind me.

I turned around and gasped, open mouthed, like a child unwrapping a present.

He was wearing his Raindrop costume, which he had left unzipped from throat to navel. There was glitter in his curls and on his eyelids.

I wanted to ask him things but I was too busy looking.

“You never got to really enjoy this costume,” he said, with a sly smile.

“Can I touch you?”

My voice was thick and remote to my own ears.

He took my hand and placed it on his breastbone; his skin was cool and soft like a magnolia flower.

“Have me,” he replied.

I hardly knew what I was doing, mad with lust as I was, and awash with adoration for this beautiful creature that was mine to cherish and to ruin.

Elio wrapped his arms around my neck and did what he liked best: he tried to climb me.

That gesture brought me back to reality: he was still my Elio: daring, impatient, unrestrained Elio.

“Careful,” I laughed, “You’re going to crush the crystal beads.”

“I don’t fucking care,” he huffed, and smashed his lips on mine.

His tongue still tasted of the wine we’d had for dinner and of something sweet, like berries. I held him up and carried him to a spot where we’d made love a few nights before. I laid him down on the yellowing grass and stood back to admire him.

“Come here, I miss you,” he husked.

I threw myself on him, biting and sucking his flesh, and he did the same to me.

His nipples were tight buds, tiny and perky like rosy pearls: they drove me insane with need. I sealed my lips around one and then the other, coaxed them with my teeth and tongue, worked them until they were swollen and dusky.

I pulled the zip down all the way, carefully, until Elio’s sex spilled out, thick and beaded at the tip.

“Wanna suck you," he said, in a voice even more broken than mine.

I got rid of my clothes and climbed on top of him, my face to his crotch. That way he could only get the head of my prick in his mouth, but it was all that I needed.

I was positioned above him in the most obscene straddle, my legs open wide and balls in full view.

“Let in me, please,” he growled, as he circled my hole with a finger.

I replied by swallowing his prick down my throat.

It wasn’t a sensual dance, but an animalistic rut: we devoured each other, moaning and crying and spilling sweat and saliva.

He shot his load in my mouth and mine decorated his face and throat.

“Thanks for the surprise,” I told him, as we lay spent in each other’s arms.

“You came to find me,” he replied, kissing the palm of my hand.

I stroked his hair, his enchanting face, his plump lips.

“I will always find you,” I said.

Always.


	49. Tricks (Rudy - Daniel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short coda for EchoBard who wanted to know more about Rudy and Daniel. Here you go, my friend, I hope you (and whoever else is interested) enjoy it.
> 
> Rudy's POV

 

I schooled my expression into casual friendliness as I turned round to face Daniel’s scrutiny.

He was lounging in his armchair looking every inch the aristocrat: grey silk pyjamas and matching cashmere _robe de chambre_ , hair in calculated disarray, a thin cigar dangling from his slim fingers. _Et in Arcadia ego_.

“You’re up to your old tricks again, my dear, aren’t you?” he drawled.

I did my best not to show how annoyed I was with his inferences.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I replied.

He smiled and sucked on the cigar; the hollowing of his cheeks was theatrical and unnecessary; meant to provoke.

“Oliver and Elio,” he enunciated slowly. “I can be extremely clear, see?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, walking in the direction of the balcony. I needed fresh air and some distance from Curtis.

“Like hell you didn’t,” he argued, harshly. “Your modus operandi is always the same: find a charity case, get your hooks in it and never let go until the poor victims are battered into submission.”

I laughed because I know it irked him. “Don’t be dramatic,” I said, “Just because I love my friends and wish to help them doesn’t mean that I’m scheming like one of the Borgias.”

“Sainted Monsieur De Vries,” he mocked. “They’ll erect you a statue one day and place it near the Bridge of Sighs.”

“I don’t see why it bothers you.”

He made a sound between a huff and a snort.

“Of course you don’t,” he said. “You are too busy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Just say what you have to say.” I was losing my cool, but he’d always had this effect on me.

“Bring me that ashtray won’t you; the bowl-shaped one on the cabinet on your left.”

I did as told, and when I handed him the object in question, his fingers brushed mine; his manicured nails grazed the back of my hand. His long eyelashes fluttered for an instant; but I might have imagined that.

He stubbed out the cigar and heaved a sigh.

“Sit down,” he said, “I can’t talk to you if you keep pacing the room.”

For a moment, I thought of making a point and occupying the banquette at the other side of the studio, but I couldn’t be that childish, so I chose the armchair opposite Daniel’s. I stared at him, pointedly.

“Remember that time we went skiing in the Dolomites?”

“Of course I do,” I replied, “It was only two years ago and I’m not yet senile.”

He closed his eyes, maybe reminiscing or shutting the world out, I couldn’t tell.

“Three years,” he corrected me. “It was January 1987. Patricia was in Asia, studying Yoga and meditation and I couldn’t leave Italy because she was afraid Ralph would raze the Palazzo to the ground.”

I couldn’t help but laugh and Daniel opened his eyes a chink to look at me; he grinned and shut them again.

“He was always going on about the evils of wealth so she ordered me to stay close to Venice.”

“And you obeyed,” I remarked. “It must have cost you a great deal to curb your wanderlust.”

This time, his eyes flew wide open.

“Are you being intentionally dense?” he asked, coldly.

Whatever he saw in my face didn’t please him.

“You seem to have forgotten that you left six days after getting there because you had some other business to attend,” he spat the words out, “Something to do with making someone’s wife jealous, if I remember correctly.”

He was right, but at the time I hadn’t believed he’d notice my absence.

“You were surrounded by your admirers,” I said, “Your clique.”

I hadn’t meant for it to sound quite so spiteful.

“Spare me the venom,” he replied. “You know that I only do what’s expected of me as one of the heirs of Palazzo Barbaro.”

“Who’s sainted now?” I retorted.

We glared at each other for a few interminable seconds.

I blinked first.

“If you’d wanted me to stay, you should have said.”

“And be another of your charity cases?”

He shook his head. I didn’t know what to say: my world had been upended and I was flailing like the particles inside a snow globe.

“We had talked about it,” he went on, in a tired, resigned tone. “You moving in while Patricia was away.”

“Wait, what?” I was close to shouting. “You asked me in jest! It was at that dinner party thrown by the Mayor and you were drunk— _really_ drunk. Someone joked about the palace being stalked by ghosts and you told them that I was to be your Van Helsing.”

He raked a nervous hand through his hair.

“What did you want me to do, tell all those people the truth?”

“What truth?”

I was mystified.

Daniel threw me a contemptuous glance and strode to the drinks cabinet. I heard a clinking of bottles and when he returned, he was holding a glass of whisky.

“You may not be senile; in which case you are a complete bastard,” he said, and knocked back his drink.

I opened my mouth, but he shushed me.

“The morning after we slept together for the, what was it, the third time? Yes, I believe it was. Anyway, I invited you to come and stay and you said yes. We were going to the Dolomites and after that, you were going to move in with me. And what did you do instead? You left on some idiotic rescue mission for one of your many friends.”

“You weren’t being serious and you know that,” I argued. “Yes, you slept with me, but you said - repeatedly - that you didn’t do relationships and that you detested exclusivity. I only took you at your word.”

“I never said that,” he said.

“Are you kidding me? You always do. It’s your tagline; it should be on your fucking letterhead.”

He smiled, bitterly.

“Some fire, at last.”

“I don’t like being treated like an idiot.”

Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath.

“I have to say that sort of things, don’t you see? It comes with the territory, with the family name. Daniel Curtis, the infamous Venetian playboy. I have a reputation to uphold.”

I barked a laugh. “How was I supposed to know, uh? You were blowing hot and cold, all of the time. I remember one afternoon in Calalzo, you were surrounded by your courtiers, amusing them with anecdotes of your latest Parisian conquests. One of them had his arm around you and his head on your shoulder.”

He sat down at my feet and gazed up at me.

“I may have done that on purpose,” he said. “I saw you coming up the steps of the Hotel.”

I nudged his thigh with my foot.

“Devious man,” I said, softly.

He undid my shoelaces and removed my brogue and my sock.

“What is it with you Curtis brothers and feet?”

Daniel grimaced. “Never compare me to Ralph, please. He’s my flesh and blood and I love him, but he doesn’t fit anywhere.”

I remove my foot from his grasp.

“That’s not fair,” I said. “He may be a bit unusual, but he’s fighting for a good cause.”

“Nuclear disarmament,” he scoffed. “Do you really think that the power that be will listen to him?”

“Probably not, but nothing ventured nothing gained.”

“His wife left him because of it.”

I conceded the point, but there was something else nagging at me.

“I don’t really fit anywhere either,” I said, looking away from Daniel.

I heard him scoff.

“What nonsense,” he exclaimed. “You have a finger in every pie: the Fondazione this, the Committee that; you’re friends with half of the Venetian phone book. Whenever there’s a thorny issue to solve, it’s always you they call.”

I felt a tide of anger surging up from my stomach and coiling round my throat.

“You don’t know me at all,” I murmured.

His hand wrapped around my ankle.

“I know you better than you think.”

“Doesn’t seem that way,” I replied, as his thumb drew circles on my skin.

“You keep your distance because you are afraid of the alternative,” he said.

“What alternative?”

“Being too close, running the risk of being rejected, of being laughed at.”

I bit down on my bottom lip.

“I was never going to make a fool out of you, Rudy,” he whispered. “I really believed that you’d _seen_ that I was---”

He hesitated, and I had enough of games so I stood up to go, even with only one shoe on.

“Sit down,” he hissed; then, more tersely, “Please just let me finish.”

I complied, silently.

“I was saying that I believed you and I had understood one another.”

“We did,” I said, “You wanted a casual fuck buddy and I didn’t.”

It sounded wrong even to my ears.

Daniel swore: something he rarely did.

“I asked you to move into my home,” he gritted out, like a parent talking to a belligerent child. “How was that not clear, please do tell.”

“It was a temporary arrangement until your sister returned from her trip: you said so yourself.”

He shook his head, chuckling but with daggers in his eyes.

“You are something else, mister,” he said. “Would you have entertained my suggestion if I hadn’t put a time limit on it?”

His gaze locked on mine. I couldn’t lie to him.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “There were always so many men coming and going, and I didn’t want to be one of them.”

Daniel’s eyes softened.

“I have never asked any of those men to come live with me.”

“You didn’t?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, you silly man, I did not.”

Daniel’s hands travelled up my legs and stroked my thighs. I hadn’t been touched that intimately in a long time and it was a bit overwhelming.

“Is the offer still open?” I joked, in a shaky voice.

He gave me a wicked smile and rose up on his knees, pushing my legs open.

“What do you think?” he growled, as his fingers ghosted my crotch.

I couldn’t think. Not for a very long while.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you just read, please leave a comment. Comments mean the world to me and feedback is what keeps me going as a writer. Love is love is love...


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